E.   P.   WHIPPLE'S    WRITINGS. 


LECTURES    ON    SUBJECTS    CONNECTED    WITH 
LITERATURE  AND    LIFE. 

1  vol.    16mo. 

ESSAYS    AND    REVIEWS. 

2  vols.    16mo. 

CHARACTER    AND    CHARACTERISTIC    MEN. 

1  vol.     16mo. 


FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  CO.,  Publishers. 


THE 


LITERATURE 


OF 


THE    AGE    OF    ELIZABETH, 


BY 


EDWIN    P.    WHIPPLE. 


BOSTON: 
FIELDS,   OSGOOD,   &   CO., 

SUCCESSORS  TO  TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS. 

i86g. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by 

FIELDS,     OSGOOD,     &     CO., 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


University  Press  :  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co., 
Camukidge. 


UNIYT:^  CALTFORNIiS 


These  essays  on  "  The  Literature  of  the  Age 
of  Elizabeth  "  were  originally  delivered  as  lec- 
tures before  the  Lowell  Institute,  in  the  spring 
of  1859,  and  were  first  printed  in  The  Atlantic 
Monthly  during  the  years  1867  and  1868. 


CONTENTS. 


— * — 

Page 
Chauacteristics  of  the    Elizabethan    Literature. — 

Marlowe 1 

Shakespeare.    1 32 

Shakespeare.  II 57 

Ben  Jonson 85 

Minor  Elizabethan  Dramatists.  —  Heywood,  Middleton, 

Marston,  Dekkar,  Webster,  and  Chapman    .        .        .  119 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Massinger,  and  Ford        .  157 

Spenser 189 

Minor  Elizabethan  Poets.  — Phineas  and  Giles  Fletch- 
er, Daniel,  Drayton,  Warner,  Donne,  Davies,  Hall, 

wotton,  and  herbert 221 

Sidney  and  Raleigh 250 

Bacon.    1 278 

Bacon.  II 306 

Hooker 340 


CHAEACTEEISTICS  OF  THE  ELIZABETHAN 
LITERATUEE.  —  IVIAELOWE. 

THE  phrase  "  literature  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  "  is 
not  confined  to  the  literatui'e  i^roduced  in  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth,  but  is  a  general  name  for  an  era  in  litera- 
ture, commencing  about  the  middle  of  her  reign,  in 
1580,  reaching  its  maturity  in  the  reign  of  James  L, 
between  1G03  and  1G2G,  and  perceptibly  declining  dur- 
ing the  reign  of  his  son.  It  is  called  by  the  name  of 
Elizabeth,  because  it  was  produced  in  connection  with 
influences  which  originated  or  culminated  in  her  time, 
and  which  did  not  altogether  cease  to  act  after  her 
death  ;  and  these  influences  give  to  its  great  works, 
whether  published  in  her  reign  or  in  the  reign  of  James, 
certain  mental  and  moral  characteristics  in  common. 
The  most  glorious  of  all  the  expressions  of  the  English 
mind,  it  is,  like  every  other  outburst  of  national  genius, 
essentially  inexplicable  in  itself.  It  occurred,  but  why 
it  occurred  we  can  answer  but  loosely.  "We  can  trace 
some  of  the  influences  which  operated  on  Spenser, 
Shakespeare,    Bacon,   Hooker,   and    Raleigh,  but  the 

1  A 


2  CHARACTERISTICS   OF   THE 

genesis  of  their  genius  is  beyond  oui-  criticism.  There 
was  abundant  reason,  in  the  circumstances  around  them, 
why  they  should  exercise  creative  power ;  but  the  pos- 
session of  the  power  is  an  ultimate  fact,  and  defies 
explanation.  Still,  the  appearance  of  so  many  eminent 
minds  in  one  period  indicates  something  in  the  circum- 
stances of  the  period  which  aided  and  stimulated,  if  it 
did  not  cause,  the  marvel ;  and  a  consideration  of  these 
circumstances,  though  it  may  not  enable  us  to  penetrate 
the  mystery  of  genius,  may  still  shed  some  light  on  its 
character  and  direction. 

The  impulse  given  to  the  English  mind  in  the  age  of 
Elizabeth  was  but  one  effect  of  that  great  movement 
of  the  European  mind  whose  steps  were  marked  by  the 
revival  of  letters,  the  invention  of  printing,  the  study 
of  the  ancient  classics,  the  rise  of  the  middle  class,  the 
discovery  of  America,  the  Reformation,  the  formation 
of  national  literatures,  and  the  general  clash  and  con- 
flict of  the  old  with  the  new,  —  the  old  existing  iu  de- 
caying institutions,  the  new  in  the  ardent  hopes  and 
organizing  genius  by  which  institutions  are  created.  If 
the  mind  was  not  always  emancipated  from  error  during 
the  stir  and  tumult  of  this  movement,  it  was  still  stung 
into  activity,  and  compelled  to  think  ;  for  if  authority, 
whether  secular  or  sacerdotal,  is  questioned,  authority- 
no  less  than  innovation  instinctively  frames  reasons  for 


ELIZABETHAN    LITERATURE.  3 

its  existence.  If  power  was  thus  driven  to  use  the 
weapons  of  the  brain,  thought,  in  its  attempt  to  become 
fact,  was  no  less  driven  to  use  the  weapons  of  force. 
Ideas  and  opinions  were  thus  all  the  more  directly  per- 
ceived and  tenaciously  held,  from  the  foct  that  they 
kindled  strong  passions,  and  frequently  demanded,  not 
merely  the  assent  of  the  intellect,  but  the  hazard  of  for- 
tune and  life. 

At  the  time  Elizabeth  ascended  the  English  throne, 
in  1558,  the  religious  element  of  this  movement  had 
nearly  spent  its  first  force.  There  was  a  comparatively 
small  band  of  intensely  earnest  Romanists,  and  perhaps 
a  larger  band  of  even  more  intensely  earnest  Puritans ; 
but  the  great  majority  of  the  people,  though  nominally 
Roman  Catholics,  were  willing  to  acquiesce  in  the  form 
given  to  the  Protestant  church  by  the  Protestant  state. 
To  Elizabeth  belongs  the  proud  distinction  of  having 
been  the  head  of  the  Protestant  interest  in  Europe  ;  but 
the  very  word  interest  indicates  a  distinction  between 
Protestantism  as  a  policy  and  Protestantism  as  a  faith ; 
and  she  did  not  hesitate  to  put  down  with  a  strong  hand 
those  of  her  subjects  whose  Protestantism  most  nearly 
agreed  with  the  Protestantism  she  aided  in  France  and 
Holland.  The  Puritan  Reformers,  though  they  repre- 
sented most  thoroughly  the  doctrines  and  spirit  of  Lu- 
ther and   Calvin,  were  thus  opposed  by  the  English 


4  CHARACTERISTICS   OF   THE 

government,  and  were  a  minority  of  the  English  people. 
Had  they  succeeded  in  reforming  the  national  Church, 
the  national  amusements,  and  the  national  taste,  ac- 
cording to  their  ideas  of  reform,  the  history  and  the 
literature  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  would  have  been 
essentially  different ;  but  they  would  have  broken  the 
continuity  of  the  national  life.  English  nature,  with 
its  basis  of  strong  sense  and  strong  sensuality,  was  hos- 
tile to  their  ascetic  morality  and  to  their  practical 
belief  in  the  all-excluding  importance  of  religious  con- 
cerns. Had  they  triumphed  then,  their  very  earnest- 
ness might  have  made  them  greater,  though  nobler, 
tyrants  than  the  Tudors  or  the  Stuarts ;  for  they 
would  have  used  the  arm  of  power  to  force  evan- 
gelical faith  and  austere  morality  on  a  reluctant  and 
resisting  people.  Sir  Toby  Belch  would  have  had  to 
fight  hard  for  his  cakes  and  ale  ;  and  the  nose  of  Bar- 
dolph  would  have  been  deprived  of  the  fuel  that  fed  its 
fire.  The  Puritans  were  a  great  force  in  politics,  as  they 
afterwards  proved  in  the  Parliaments  of  Charles  and 
the  Commonwealth ;  but  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  they 
were  politically  but  a  faction,  and  a  faction  having  at 
one  time  for  its  head  the  greatest  scoundrel  in  England, 
the  Earl  of  Leicester.  They  were  a  great  force  in  lit- 
erature, as  they  afterwards  proved  by  Milton  and  Bun- 
yan  ;  but  their  position  towards  what  is  properly  called 


ELIZABETHAN   LITEKATURE.  5 

the  literature  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  was  strictly  antag- 
onistical.  The  spirit  of  that  literature,  in  its  poetry,  its 
drama,  its  philosophy,  its  divinity,  was  a  spirit  which 
they  disliked  in  some  of  its  forms,  and  abhorred  in 
others.  Their  energies,  though  mighty,  are  therefore 
to  be  deducted  from  the  mass  of  energies  by  which  that 
literature  was  produced.   \ 

And  this  brings  us  to  the  first  and  most. marked  char- 
acteristic of  this  literature,  namely,  that  it  is  intensely 
human.  Human  nature  in  its  appetites,  passions,  im- 
perfections, vices,  virtues ;  in  its  thoughts,  aspirations, 
imaginations ;  in  all  the  concrete  forms  of  character  in 
which  it  finds  expression,  in  all  the  heights  of  ecstasy 
to  which  it  soars,  in  all  the  depths  of  depravity  to  which 
it  sinks, — this  is  what  the  Elizabethan  literature  rep- 
resents or  idealizes  ;  and  the  total  effect  of  this  exhibi- 
tion of  human  life  and  exposition  of  human  capacities, 
whether  it  be  in  the  romance  of  Sidney,  the  poetry  of 
Spenser,  the  drama  of  Shakespeare,  the  philosophy  of 
Bacon,  or  the  divinity  of  Hooker,  is  the  wholesome  and 
inspiring  effect  of  beauty  and  cheer.  This  belief  in  hu- 
man nature,  and  tacit  assumption  of  its  right  to  expres- 
sion, could  only  have  arisen  in  an  age  which  stimulated 
human  energies  by  affording  fresh  fields  for  their  develop- 
ment, and  in  an  age  whose  activity  was  impelled  by  a 
romantic  and  heroic,  rather  than  a  theological  spirit. 


6  CHARACTERISTICS   OF  THE 

And  the  peculiar  position  of  Elizabeth  compelled  her, 
absolute  as  was  her  temper,  to  act  in  harmony  with  her 
people,  and  to  allow  individual  enterprise  its  largest  scope. 
Her  revenue  was  altogether  inadequate  to  carry  on  a  war 
with  Spain  and  a  war  with  Ireland,  to  assist  the  Protes- 
tants of  France  and  Holland,  to  inaugurate  great  schemes 
of  American  colonization,  to  fit  out  expeditions  to  harass 
the  colonies  and  plunder  the  commerce  of  Spain,  — 
inadequate,  in  short,  to  make  England  a  power  of  the 
first  class.  But  the  patriotism  of  her  people,  coinciding 
with  their  interests  and  love  of  adventure,  urged  them 
to  undertake  public  objects  as  commercial  speculations. 
They  made  war  on  her  enemies  for  the  spoils  to  be  ob- 
tained from  her  enemies.  Perhaps  the  most  compre- 
hensive type  of  the  period,  representing  most  vividly 
the  stimulants  it  presented  to  ambition  and  avarice,  to 
chivalrous  sentiment  and  greed  of  gain,  to  action  and  to 
thought,  was  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  Poet,  historian, 
courtier,  statesman,  military  commander,  naval  com- 
mander, colonizer,  filibuster,  he  had  no  talent  and  no 
accomplishment,  no  virtue  and  no  vice,  which  the  time 
did  not  tempt  into  exercise.  He  participated  in  the 
widely  varying  ambitions  of  Spenser  and  Jonton,  of 
Essex  and  Leicester,  of  Burleigh,  Walsingham,  and  Sir 
Nicholas  Bacon,  of  Norris  and  Howard  of  Etnngham, 
of  Drake,  Hawkins,  and  Cumberland ;  and  in  all  these 
he  was  thoroughly  human. 


ELIZABETHAN   LITEEATUKE.  7 

The  next  cliaracteristic  of  the  higher  literature  of  the 
period  is  its  breadth  and  preponderance  of  thought,  — 
a  quality  which  seemed  native  to  the  time,  and  which 
was  shared  by  the  men  of  affairs.  Indeed,  no  one  could 
serve  Elizabeth  well  whose  loyalty  of  heart  was  unac- 
companied by  largeness  of  brain.  She  was  so  sur- 
rounded by  foreign  enemies  and  domestic  factions,  that 
the  sagacity  which  makes  the  fewest  mistakes  was  her 
only  security  against  dethronement  or  assassination. 
Her  statesmen,  however  fixed  might  be  their  convictions 
and  energetic  their  wills,  were,  by  the  necessities  of  their 
position,  compelled  to  be  wary,  vigilant,  politic,  crafty, 
comprehensive  in  their  views,  compromising  in  their 
measures.  The  time  required  minds  that  could  observe, 
analyze,  infer,  combine,  foresee,  —  vigorous  in  the  grasp 
of  principles,  exact  in  the  scrutiny  of  facts.  Such  were 
the  complications  of  political  affairs,  that  the  difficulty, 
with  all  but  the  most  capacious  intellects,  was  to  decide 
at  all ;  and  even  they  sometimes  found  it  wise  to  follow 
the  drift  of  events  which  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
shape  or  to  guide.  It  might  be  supposed,  that  if,  in  any 
person  of  the  period,  impetuosity  of  purpose  or  caprice 
of  will  would  overbear  all  the  restraints  of  prudence, 
that  person  was  Elizabeth  hei'self ;  but  she  really  was 
as  indecisive  in  conduct  as  she  was  furious  in  passion. 
Proud,  fierce,  vain,  haughty,  vindictive ;  a  virago  and  a 


8  CHAKACTERISTICS   OF   THE 

coquette ;  ready  enough  to  box  the  ears  of  one  of  her 
courtiers,  and  threaten  with  an  oath  to  unfrock  one  of 
her  bishops  ;  despotic  in  her  bearing  towards  all  over 
whom  she  had  complete  control ;  cursed,  indeed,  with 
every  internal  impulse  which  leads  to  reckless  action,  — 
she  was  still  a  thinker ;  and  thought  revealed  insecuri- 
ties in  her  position,  in  considering  which  even  her  impe- 
rious will  was  puzzled  into  irresolution,  and  shrank  from 
the  plain  road  of  force  to  feel  its  way  through  the 
crooked  paths  of  hypocrisy  and  craft. 

This  comprehensiveness  of  thought  did  not,  in  the 
men  of  letters,  interfere  with  loftiness  of  thought ;  but  it 
connected  thought  with  life,  gave  it  body  and  form,  and 
made  it  fertile  in  those  weighty  maxims  which,  while 
they  bear  dii'ectly  on  practical  conduct,  and  harmonize 
with  the  experience  of  men,  are  also  characterized  by 
that  easy  elevation  of  view  and  of  tone  which  distin- 
guishes philosophic  wisdom  from  prudential  moralizing. 
The  Elizabethan  thinkers  instinctively  recognized  the 
truth  that  real  thinking  implies-  the  action  of  the  whole 
nature,  and  not  of  a  single  isolated  faculty.  They  were 
men  of  large  understandings ;  but  their  understandings 
rarely  acted  apart  from  observation  and  imagination,  — 
from  sentiment,  passion,  and  character.  They  not  only 
reasoned,  but  they  had  reason.  They  looked  at  things, 
and  round  things,  and  into  things,  and  through  things. 


ELIZABETHAN  LITERATURE.  9 

Though  they  were  masters  of  the  processes  of  logic, 
their  eminent  merit  was  tlieir  broad  grasp  of  the  prem- 
ises of  logic,  and  their  ready  anticipation  of  the  results  of 
logic.  They  could  argue ;  bat  they  preferred  to  flash 
the  conclusions  of  argument  rather  than  to  recite  its 
details,  and  their  minds  darted  to  results  to  which  slower 
intelligences  creep.  From  the  fact  that  they  had  reason 
in  abundance,  they  were  somewhat  chary  of  reasons. 
Their  thinking,  indeed,  gives  us  the  solid,  nutritious, 
enriching  substance  of  thought.  While  it  comprehends 
the  outward  facts  of  life,  it  connects  them  with  those 
great  mental  facts  beheld  by  the  inner  eye  of  the 
mind.  It  thus  combines  massive  good  sense  with  a 
Platonic  elevation  of  spiritual  perception,  and  especially 
avoids  the  thinness  and  juicelessness  which  are  apt  to 
characterize  the  greatest  efforts  of  the  understanding, 
when  understanding  is  divorced  from  character. 

This  equipoise  and  interpenetration  of  the  faculties 
of  the  mind  and  the  feelings  of  the  heart,  which  give  to 
these  writers  their  largeness,  dignity,  sweetness,  and 
power,  are  to  be  referred  in  a  great  degree  to  the  imagi- 
native element  of  their  natures.  They  lived,  indeed, 
in  an  imaginative  age,  —  an  age  in  which  thought,  feel- 
ing, aspiration,  character,  whether  low  or  exalted,  aimed 
to  embody  themselves  in  appropriate  external  forms, 
and  be  made  visible  to  the  eye.  In  the  great  poets  and 
1* 


10  CHARACTERISTICS    OF   THE 

philosophers  this  imagination  existed  both  as  ecstatic 
insight  of  spiritual  facts  and  as  shaping  power,  —  as 
both  the  "  vision  and  the  faculty  divine" ;  but  all  over  the 
Elizabethan  society,  —  in  dress,  in  manners,  in  speech, 
in  the  badges  of  professions,  in  amusements,  in  pageants 
and  spectacles,  —  character,  class,  and  condition,  in  all 
their  varieties,  were  directly  imaged.  Lamb  calls  all 
this  a  visible  poetry  ;  and  much  which  we  now  read  as 
poetry  was  simply  the  transference  into  language  of  the 
common  facts  of  the  time. 

This  imaginative  tendency  of  the  national  mind  ap- 
peared in  a  still  higher  form  in  that  chivalrous  cast  of 
feeling  and  of  thought  which  we  observe  in  all  the 
nobler  men  of  the  time.  "  High -erected  thoughts  seated 
in  a  heart  of  courtesy,"  is  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  definition 
of  the  gentleman ;  and  this  was  the  standard  to  which 
many  aspired,  if  few  reached  it.  This  chivalry  was  a 
poetic  reflection  of  the  feudal  age,  which  was  departing 
in  its  rougher  and  baser  realities,  but  lingering  in  its 
beautiful  ideas  and  ideals,  especially  in  the  knightly  love 
of  adventure  and  the  knightly  reverence  for  woman. 
It  gave  an  air  of  romance  to  acts,  enterprises,  and 
amusements  which  sometimes  had  their  vulgar  side. 
Raleigh  tilted  in  silver  armor  before  the  Queen,  but 
the  silver  from  which  the  armor  was  made  had  been 
stolen  from  Spanish  merchantmen.     Sidney  was  eager 


ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE.  11 

to  fight  in  single  combat  with  the  defamer  of  his  uncle 
Leicester,  though  his  uncle  richly  deserved  the  gibbet. 
Cumberland  was  a  knight-errant  of  the  seas,  strangely 
blending  the  love  of  glory  with  the  love  of  gold,  the 
spirit  of  wild  adventure  with  the  spirit  of  commercial 
thrift.  Something  imaginative,  something  which  par- 
took of  the  sentiment  of  the  old  time,  was  mingled 
with  the  bustling  practicalities  of  the  present.  If  we 
look  at  a  man  like  Sir  Francis  Drake  from  the  mere 
understanding,  we  find  it  difficult  to  decide  whether 
his  enterprises  were  private  or  national,  whether  the 
patriot  predominated  over  the  pirate,  or  the  pirate  over 
the  patriot ;  but  if  we  look  at  him  from  the  Elizabethan 
point  of  view,  it  is  not  difficult  to  discern  an  enthusi- 
astic, chivalric,  loyal,  Protestant  spirit  as  the  presiding 
element  of  his  being  and  the  source  of  his  pecuniary 
success.  He  did  many  things  which,  if  done  now, 
would  very  properly  send  the  perpetrator  of  them  to 
the  gallows ;  yet,  as  a  man,  he  was  very  much  superior 
to  many  a  modei-n  statesman  and  judge,  who  would 
conscientiously  order  his  execution.  Vitally  right,  but 
formally  wrong,  he  in  the  Elizabethan  age  was  im- 
mensely honored. 

This  slight  reference  to  a  few  of  the  Elizabethan  men 
of  action  shows  that  literature  was  but  one  out  of  many 
expressions  of  the  roused  energies  of  the  national  heart 


12  CHAEACTERISTICS   OF   THE 

and  brain,  and  that  those  who  performed  actions  which 
poetry  celebrates  were  as  numerous  as  the  poets.  As 
the  external  inducements  to  adopt  literature  as  a  profes- 
sion were  not  so  great  as  in  our  day,  — as  there  was  no 
reading  public  in  our  sense  of  the  term,  —  we  are  at 
first  surprised  that  so  much  genius  was  diverted  into 
this  path.  But  both  Elizabeth  and  James  were  learned 
sovereigns  :  both  were  writers  ;  and  in  the  courts  of 
both  literature  and  learning  were  the  fashion,  and  often 
the  avenues  to  distinction  in  Church  and  State.  It 
was  recognized  that  literary  ability  was  but  one  phase 
of  general  ability.  Buckhurst  was  an  eminent  states- 
man. Sidney  and  Spenser  were  men  of  affairs.  Ra- 
leigh could  do  anything.  Bacon  was  a  lawyer  and 
jurist.  Hooker,  Hall,  Giles  and  Phineas  Fletcher, 
and  Donne  were  in  the  Church.  The  patronage  of 
educated  and  accomplished  nobles  was  extended  to 
numerous  writers  like  Daniel  and  Drayton,  who  could 
not  have  subsisted  by  the  sale  of  their  works.  None 
of  these  can  be  styled  authors  by  profession  :  that  sad 
distinction  was  confined  to  the  dramatists.  In  the  time 
of  Elizabeth  and  James  the  theatre  was  almost  the  only 
medium  of  communication  between  writers  and  the  peo- 
ple, and  attracted  to  it  all  those  who  aimed  to  gain  a 
livelihood  out  of  the  products  of  their  hearts  and  imagi- 
nations.    Its  literature  was   the  popular  literature  of 


ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE.  13 

the  age.  It  was  newspaper,  magazine,  novel,  all  in  one. 
It  was  tlie  Elizabethan  "Times,"  the  Elizabethan 
"  Blackwood,"  the  Elizabethan  "  Temple  Bar "  :  it 
tempted  into  its  arena  equally  the  Elizabethan  Thack- 
erays  and  the  Elizabethan  Braddons ;  but  the  remuner- 
ation it  afforded  to  the  most  distinguished  of  the  swarm 
of  playwrights  who  depended  on  it  for  bread  was  small. 
All  experienced  the  full  bitterness  of  poverty,  if  w-e  ex- 
cept Shakespeare,  Jonson,  and  Fletcher.  Shakespeare 
was  an  excellent  man  of  business,  a  part-proprietor  of  a 
theatre,  and  made  his  fortune.  Jonson  was  jiatronized 
by  James,  and  was  as  much  a  court  poet  as  a  popular 
poet.  Fletcher,  though  the  most  fertile  of  the  three  in 
the  number  of  his  plays,  and  the  greatest  master  of 
theatrical  effect,  did  not,  it  is  supposed,  altogether  de- 
pend on  the  stage  for  his  support.  But  Chapman,  Dek- 
kar,  Field,  Rowley,  Massinger,  and  all  the  other  pro- 
fessional playwrights,  were  wretchedly  poor.  And  it 
must  be  said,  that,  though  we  are  in  the  custom  of 
affirming  that  the  circumstances  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth 
were  pre-eminently  favorable  to  literature,  most  of  the 
writers,  including  such  men  as  Spenser  and  Jonson,  were 
in  the  lial)it  of  moaning  or  grumbling  over  its  degeneracy, 
and  of  wishing  that  they  had  been  born  in  happier  times. 
There  were,  then,  three  centres  for  the  literature 
of  the  period,  —  the  Court,  the  Church,  and  tlie  Theatre. 


14  CHARACTEEISTICS   OF   THE 

Let  us  consider  the  drama  first,  as  it  was  nearer  the 
popular  heart,  was  the  medium  through  which  the 
grandest  as  well  as  meanest  minds  found  expression,  and 
w^as  thoroughly  national,  or  at  least  thoroughly  nation- 
alized. 

England  had  a  drama  as  early  as  the  twelfth  century, 
—  a  drama  used  by  the  priests  as  a  mode  of  amusing 
the  people  into  a  knowledge  of  religion.  Its  products 
were  called  Miracle  Plays.  They  were  written,  and 
often  acted,  by  ecclesiastics  ;  they  represented  the  per- 
sons and  events  of  the  Scriptures,  of  the  apocryphal 
Gospels,  and  of  the  legends  of  saints  and  martyrs,  and 
were  performed  sometimes  in  the  open  air,  on  tempo- 
rary stages  and  scaffolds,  sometimes  in  churches  and 
chapels.  The  earliest  play  of  this  sort  of  which  we 
have  any  record  was  performed  between  the  years  1100 
and  1110.  The  general  characteristic  of  these  plays, 
if  we  should  speak  after  the  ideas  of  our  time,  was 
blasphemy,  and  blasphemy  of  the  worst  kind  ;  for  the 
irreverent  utterance  of  sacred  names  is  venial  compared 
with  the  irreverent  representation  of  sacred  persons. 
The  object  of  the  writers  Avas  to  bring  Christianity 
within  popular  apprehension  ;  and  in  the  process  they 
burlesqued  it.  They  belonged  to  a  class  of  writers  and 
speakers,  as  common  now  as  then,  who  vulgarize  the 
highest  subjects  in  the  attempt  to  popularize  them,— 


ELIZABETUAN  LITERATURE  15 

who  degrade  religion  in  the  attempt  to  make  it  efficient. 
The  writers  of  the  Miracle  Plajs  only  appear  worse 
than  their  Protestant  successors,  from  the  greater  rude- 
ness in  the  minds  and  manners  to  which  they  appealed. 
They  did  not  aim  to  lift  the  people  up,  but  to  drag  the 
Divinity  down ;  and,  not  being  in  any  sense  poets,  they 
could  not  make  what  was  sacred  familiarly  apprehended, 
and  at  the  same  time  preserve  that  ideal  remoteness 
from  ordinary  life  which  is  the  condition  of  its  being 
reverently  apprehended.  Their  religious  dramas,  accord- 
ingly, were  mostly  monstrous  farces,  full  of  buffoonery 
and  indecency,  though  not  without  a  certain  coarse 
humor  and  power  of  characterization.  Thus,  in  the 
play  of  the  Deluge,  Noah  and  his  wife  are  close  copies 
of  contemporary  character  and  manners,  projected  on 
the  Bible  narrative.  Mrs.  Noah  is  a  shrew  and  a 
vixen;  refuses  to  leave  her  gossips  and  go  into  the  ark; 
scolds  Noah,  and  is  soundly  Avhipped  by  him ;  then 
wishes  herself  a  widow,  and  thinks  she  but  echoes  the 
feeling  of  all  the  wives  in  the  audience,  in  hoping  for 
them  the  same  good  luck.  Noah  then  takes  occasion  to 
inform  all  the  husbands  present  that  their  proper  course 
is  to  break  in  their  wives  after  his  fashion.  By  this 
time  the  water  is  nearly  up  to  his  wife's  neck,  and  she 
is  partly  coaxed  and  partly  forced  into  the  ark  by  one 
of  her  sons.     Again,  in  a  play  on  the  Adoration  of  the 


16  CHARACTERISTICS   OF   THE 

Shepherds,  the  shepherds  are  three  English  boors,  who 
meet  with  a  variety  of  the  most  coarsely  comical  adven- 
tures in  their  journey  to  Bethlehem  ;  wlio,  just  before 
the  star  in  the  east  appears,  get  into  a  quarrel  and  fight, 
after  having  feasted  on  Lancashire  jammocks  and  Hal- 
ton  ale ;  and  who,  when  they  arrive  at  their  destination, 
present  three  gifts  to  the  infant  Saviour,  namely,  a  bird, 
a  tennis-ball,  and  a  bob  of  cherries. 

The  Miracle  Plays  were  very  popular,  and  did  not 
altogether  die  out  before  the  reign  of  James.  In  some 
of  them  personified  abstractions  came  to  be  blended 
with  the  persons  of  the  drama ;  and  in  the  fifteenth 
century  a  new  class  of  dramatic  performances  arose, 
called  Moral  Plays,  in  which  these  personified  abstrac- 
tions pushed  persons  out  of  the  piece,  and  ethics  sup- 
planted theology.  There  is,  in  some  of  these  Moral 
Plays,  a  gi-eat  deal  of  ingenuity  displayed  in  the 
impersonation  and  allegorical  representation  of  quali- 
ties. They  took  strong  hold  of  the  English  mind. 
Pride,  gluttony,  sensuality,  worldliness,  meekness,  tem- 
perance, faith,  in  their  single  and  in  their  blended 
action,  were  often  happily  characterized  ;  and,  though 
they  were  eventually  banished  from  the  drama,  they 
reappeared  in  the  pageants  of  Elizabeth  and  in  the 
poetry  of  Spenser.  But  their  popularity  was  doubtless 
owing  more  to  their  fun  than  their  ethics ;  and  the  two 


ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE.  17 

characters  of  the  Devil  and  Vice,  the  laughable  monster 
and  the  laughable  buffoon,  were  the  darlings  of  the 
multitude.  In  Ben  Jonson's  "  Staple  of  News,"  Gossip 
Tattle  exclaims:  "My  husband,  Timothy  Tattle,  God 
rest  his  soul !  was  wont  to  say  that  there  was  no  play 
without  a  fool  and  a  Devil  in  't :  he  was  for  the  Devil 
still,  God  bless  him  !  The  Devil  for  his  money,  he 
would  say ;  I  would  fain  see  the  Devil." 

Nearer  to  the  modern  Play  than  either  the  Miracle 
or  the  Moral,  was  the  Interlude,  so  called  from  its  being 
acted  in  the  intervals  of  a  banquet.  It  was  a  farce 
in  one  act,  and  devoted  to  the  humorous  and  satirical 
representation  of  contemporary  manners  and  charac- 
ter, especially  professional  character.  John  Heywood, 
the  jester  of  Henry  VIII.,  was  the  best  maker  of  these 
Interludes. 

At  the  time  that  all  of  these  three  forms  of  the  drama 
were  more  or  less  in  esteem,  Nicholas  Udall,  a  classical 
scholar,  produced,  about  the  year  1540,  the  first  English 
comedy,  "  Ralph  Roister  Doister,"  —  very  much  supe- 
rior, in  incident  and  characterization,  to  "  Gammer  Gur- 
ton's  Needle,"  written  twenty  years  afterwards,  though 
neither  rises  above  the  mere  prosaic  delineation,  tlie 
first  of  civic,  the  last  of  country  life.  The  poetic  ele- 
ment, which  was  afterwards  so  conspicuous  in  the  Eliza- 
bethan drama,  did  not  even  appear  in  the  first  English 

B 


18  CHARACTERISTICS   OF   THE 

tragedy,  "  Gorboduc,"  though  it  was  written  by  Thomas 
Sackville,  the  author  of  the  Induction  to  the  "  Mirror 
of  Magistrates,"  and  the  only  great  poet  that  arose  be- 
tween Chaucer  aiicl  Spenser.  "  Gorboduc  "  was  acted 
before  Queen  ~Elikabeth  at  Whitehall,  by  the  Gentlemen 
of  the  Inner  Temple,  in  January,  1562.  It  was  re- 
ceived with  great;  applause  ;  but  it  appears,  as  read  now, 
singularly  frigid  land  unimpassioned,  with  not  even,  as 
Campbell  says,  '\the  unities  of  space  and  time  to  cir- 
cumscribe its  dulness."  It  has  all  the  author's  justness, 
weight,  and  fertility  of  thought,  but  little  of  his  imagi- 
nation ;  and  though  celebrated  as  the  first  English  play 
written  in  blank  verse,  the  measure,  in  Sackville's  hands, 
is  wearisomely  monotonous,  and  conveys  no  notion  of 
the  elasticity  and  variety  of  which  it  was  afterwards 
found  capable,  when  used  by  Marlowe  and  Shakespeare. 
The  tragedy  is  not  deficient  in  terrible  events,  but  even 
its  murders  make  us  yawn. 

It  is  probable  that  the  fifty-two  plays  performed  at 
court  between  1568  and  1580,  and  of  which  nothing  is 
preserved  but  the  names,  contained  little  to  make  us 
regret  their  loss.  Neither  at  the  Royal  Palace,  nor  the 
Inns  of  Court,  nor  the  Universities,  —  at  all  of  whicli 
plays  were  performed,  —  could  a  free  and  original  national 
drama  be  built  up.  This  required  a  public  theatre,  and 
an  audience  composed  of  all  classes  of  the  people.     Ac- 


ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE.  19 

cordingly,  the  most  impnrtant  incident  in  the  history  of 
the  English  stage  was  the  patent  granted  by  the  crown, 
in  1574,  to  James  Burbage  and  his  associates,  players 
under  the  protection  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  to  per- 
form in  the  City  and  Liberties  of  London,  and  in  all 
other  parts  of  the  kingdom  ;  "  as  well,"  the  phraseology 
runs,  "  for  the  recreation  of  our  loving  subjects,  as  for 
our  own  solace  and  pleasure,  when  we  shall  think  fit  to 
see  them." 

But  the  Corporation  of  London,  thorough  Puritans, 
were  determined,  as  far  as  their  power  extended,  to 
prevent  the  Queen's  subjects  from  having  any  such 
*'  recreation,"  and  her  Majesty  herself  from  enjoying 
any  such  "  solace  and  pleasure."  "  Forasmuch  as  the 
playing  of  interludes,  and  the  resort  to  the  same,  are 
very  dangerous  for  the  infection  of  the  plague,  whereby 
infinite  burdens  and  losses  to  the  city  may  increase  ;  and 
are  very  hurtful  in  corruption  of  youth  with  inconti- 
nence and  lewdness  ;  and  also  great  wasting  both  of  the 
time  and  thrift  of  many  poor  people  ;  and  great  provok- 
ing of  the  wrath  of  God,  the  ground  of  all  plagues  ; 
great  withdrawing  of  the  people  from  public  prayer, 
and  from  the  service  of  God ;  and  daily  cried  out  against 
by  all  preachers  of  the  word  of  God  ;  —  therefore,"  the 
Corporation  ordered,  "  all  such  interludes  in  public 
places,  and  the  resort  to  the  same,  shall  wholly  be  pro- 


20  CHARACTERISTICS   OF   THE 

hibited  as  ungodly,  and  humble  suit  made  to  the  Lords, 
that  like  prohibitation  be  in  places  near  the  city." 

The  players,  thus  expelled  the  city,  withdrew  to  the 
nearest  point  outside  the  Lord  Mayor's  jurisdiction,  and, 
in  1576,  erected  their  theatre  in  Blackfriars.  Two  thea- 
tres, "  The  Curtain  "  and  "  The  Theatre,"  were  erected 
by  other  companies  in  Shoreditch.  Before  the  end  of 
the  century  there  were  at  least  eleven.  To  these  round 
wooden  buildings,  open  to  the  sky,  with  only  a  thatched 
roof  over  the  stage,  the  people  flocked  daily  for  mental 
excitement.  There  was  no  movable  scenery ;  the  female 
characters  were  played  by  boys  ;  and  the  lowest  thea- 
tres of  our  day  are  richer  in  aj^pointments  than  were  the 
finest  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth.  "  Such,"  says  Malone, 
"  was  the  poverty  of  the  old  stage,  that  the  same  person 
played  two  or  three  parts  ;  and  battles  on  which  the 
fate  of  an  empire  was  supposed  to  depend  were  decided 
by  three  combatants  on  a  side."  It  is  difficult  for  us  to 
conceive  of  the  popularity  of  the  stage  in  those  days. 
One  of  the  spies  of  Secretary  Walsingham,  writing  to 
his  employer  in  1586,  thus  groans  over  the  taste  of  the 
people  :  "  The  daily  abuse  of  stage  plays  is  such  an 
offence  to  the  godly,  and  so  great  a  hindrance  to  the 
Gospel,  as  the  Papists  do  exceedingly  rejoice  at  the 
blemish  thereof,  and  not  without  cause  ;  for  every  day 
in  the  week  the  player's  bills  are  set  up  in  sundry  places 


ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE.  21 

of  the  city  ;  ....  so  that,  when  tlie  bells  toll  to  the 
lecturer,  the  trumpets  sound  to  the  stages.  Whereat 
the  wicked  faction  of  Rome  laugheth  for  joy,  while  the 

godly  weep  for  sorrow It  is  a  woful  sight  to  see 

two  hundred  proud  players  jet  in  their  silks,  while  five 

hundred  poor  people  starve  in  the  streets "Woe 

is  me  !  the  play-houses  are  pestered  when  the  churches 
are  naked.  At  the  one,  it  is  not  possible  to  get  a  place ; 
at  the  other,  void  seats  are  plenty,"  It  may  here  be 
said,  that  the  mutual  hostility  of  the  players  and  the 
Puritans  continued  until  the  suppression  of  the  theatres 
under  the  Commonwealth  ;  and  for  fifty  or  sixty  years 
the  Puritans  were  only  mentioned  by  the  dramatists  to 
be  mercilessly  satirized.  Even  Shakespeare's  catholic 
mind  was  not  broad  enough  to  include  them  in  the 
range  of  its  sympathies. 

That  this  opposition  to  the  stage  by  the  staid  and 
sober  citizens  was  not  without  cause,  soon  became  mani- 
fest. The  characteristic  of  tlie  drama,  before  Shake- 
speare, was  intellectual  and  moral  lawlessness ;  and 
most  of  the  dramatists  were  men  as  destitute  of  eminent 
genius  as  of  common  principle.  Stephen  Gosson,  a 
Puritan,  in  a  tract  published  in  1581,  attacks  them  on 
grounds  equally  of  taste  and  morals ;  and  five  years 
afterwards  Sir  Philip  Sidney  speaks  of  the  popular 
plays  as  against  all  "  rules  of  honest  civility  and  skilful 


22  CHARACTERISTICS   OE-  THE 

poetry."  But  Gosson  indicates  also  the  sources  of  their 
plots.  Painter's  "  Palace  of  Pleasure,"  a  series  of  not 
over-modest  tales  from  the  Italian  ;  "  The  Golden  Ass  " ; 
"  The  Ethiopian  History  "  ;  "  Amadis  of  France  " ;  "The 
Pound  Table  "  ;  —  all  the  licentious  comedies  in  Latin, 
French,  Italian,  and  Spanish  were  thoroughly  ran- 
sacked, he  tells  us,  "  to  furnish  the  play-houses  of  Lon- 
don." The  result,  of  course,  was  a  chaos ;  but  a  chaos 
whose,  materials  were  wide  and  various,  indicating  that 
the  English  mind  was  in  contact  with,  and  attempting 
roughly  to  reproduce,  the  genius  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
of  France,  Spain,  and  Italy,  the  chronicles  and  ro- 
mances of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  was  hospitable  to  intel- 
lectual influences  from  all  quarters.  What  was  needed 
was  the  powerful  personality  and  shaping  imagination  of 
genius,  to  fuse  these  seemingly  heterogeneous  materials 
into  new  and  original  forms.  "The  Faerie  Queene" 
of  Spenser,  and  the  drama  of  Shakespeare,  evince 
the  same  assimilation  of  incongruous  elements  which 
Gosson  derides  and  denounces  as  it  appeared  in  the 
shapeless  works  of  mediocrity.  There  was  not  merely 
to  be  a  new  drama,  but  a  new  art,  and  new  principles 
of  criticism  to  legitimate  its  creative  audacities.  The 
materials  were  rich  and  various.  The  difficulty  was, 
that  to  combine  them  into  original  forms  required  genius, 
and  genius  higher,  bi'oader,  more  energetic,  more  imagi- 


ELIZABETHAN  LITERATURE.  23 

native,  and   more   humane   than  had  ever  before  been 
directed  to  dramatic  composition. 

The  immediate  predecessors  of  Shakespeare — Greene, 
Lodge,  Kyd,  Peele,  Marlowe  —  were  all  educated  at 
the  Universities,  and  were  naturally  prejudiced  in  favor 
of  the  classics.  But  they  were,  at  the  same  time,  wild 
Bohemian  youths,  thrown  upon  the  world  of  London  to 
turn  their  talents  and  accomplishments  into  the  means 
of  livelihood  or  the  means  of  debauch.  They  depended 
principally  on  the  popular  theatres,  and  of  course  ad- 
dressed the  popular  mind.  Why,  indeed,  should  they 
write  according  to  the  rules  of  the  classic  drama  ?  The 
classic  drama  was  a  growth  from  the  life  of  the  times  in 
which  it  appeared.  Its  rules  were  simply  generaliza- 
tions from  the  practice  of  classic  dramatists.  A  drama 
suited  to  the  tastes  and  wants  of  the  people  of  Greece 
or  Rome  was  evidently  not  suited  to  the  tastes  and 
wants  of  the  people  of  England.  The  whole  frame- 
work of  society,  —  custom-;,  manners,  feelings,  aspira- 
tions, traditions,  superstitions,  religion,  —  had  changed  ; 
and,  as  the  drama  is  a  reflection  of  hfe,  either  as  actu- 
ally existing  or  ideally  existing,  it  is  evident  that  both 
the  expez-icnce  and  the  sentiments  of  the  English  audi- 
ences demanded  that  it  should  be  the  reflection  of  a 
new  life.  These  dramatists,  however,  in  emancipating 
themselves  from  the  literary  jurisprudence  of  Greece 


24  CHARACTERISTICS   OF   THE 

and  Rome,  put  little  but  iudividual  caprice  in  its  place. 
Released  from  formal  rules,  they  did  not  rise  into  the 
artistic  region  of  principles,  but  fell  into  the  pit  of  anar- 
chy and  mere  lawlessness.  Lacking  the  higher  imagi- 
nation which  conceives  living  ideas  and  organizes  living 
works,  their  dramas  evince  no  coherence,  no  subordina- 
tion of  parts,  no  grasp  of  the  subject  as  a  whole.  There 
is  a  German  play  in  which  Adam  is  represented  as  pass- 
ing across  the  stage,  "  going  to  be  created."  The  drama 
of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  in  the  persons  of  Greene, 
Peele,  Kyd,  and  others,  indicates,  in  some  such  rude 
■way,  that  it  is  "going  to  be  created." 

That  this  dramatic  shapelessness  was  not  inconsistent 
with  single  poetic  conceptions  of  the  greatest  force  and 
fineness,  might  be  proved  by  abundant  quotations. 
Lodge,  for  example,  was  a  poor  di-amatist ;  but  what 
living  poet  would  not  be  proud  to  own  this  exquisite 
description,  in  his  lyric  of  "  Rosaline,"  of  the  person 
and  influence  of  beauty  ? 

"  Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere, 
Where  all  imperial  glory  shines, 
Of  selfsame  color  is  her  hair, 
Whether  unfolded  or  in  twines. 

"  Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 
Refining  heaven  by  every  wink; 
The  gods  do  fear  whenas  they  glow, 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think. 


ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE.  25 

''*  Her  cheeks  are  like  the  blushing  cloud 
That  beautifies  Aurora's  face; 
Or  like  the  silver-crimson  shroud, 
That  Phoebus'  smiling  looks  doth  grace. 

"  Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses, 
Whom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbor  nigh, 
Within  which  bounds  she  balm  encloses, 
Apt  to  entice  a  deity. 

"  Her  neck  like  to  a  stately  tower, 

Where  Love  himself  imprisoned  lies, 
To  watch  for  glances  every  hour 
From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes. 

"  With  orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red. 

With  marble  white,  with  sapphire  blue, 
Her  body  everyway  is  fed, 
Yet  soft  in  touch,  and  sweet  in  view. 

" Nature  herself  her  shape  admires; 
The  gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight; 
And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires. 
And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light." 

But  a  more  potent  spirit  than  any  we  have  men- 
tioned, and  the  greatest  of  Shakespeare's  predecessors, 
was  Christopher  Marlowe,  a  man  of  humble  parentage, 
but  with  Norman  blood  in  his  brains,  if  not  in  his  veins. 
Pie  was,  indeed,  the  proudest  and  fiercest  of  intellectual 
aristocrats.  The  son  of  a  shoemaker,  and  born  in  15G4, 
his   unmistakable   genius   seems    to   have   gained   him 

2 


26  MARLOWE. 

friends,  who  looked  after  his  early  education,  and  sent 
him,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  to  the  University  of  Cam- 
bridge. He  was  intended  for  the  Church,  but  the 
Church  had  evidently  no  attractions  for  him.  The  study 
of  theology  appears  to  have  resulted  in  making  him  an 
enemy  of  religion.  There  was,  indeed,  hardly  a  Chris- 
tian element  in  his  untamable  nature  ;  and,  though  he 
was  called  a  sceptic,  infidehty  in  him  took  the  form  of 
blasphemy  rather  than  of  denial.  He  was  made  up 
of  vehement  passions,  vivid  imagination,  and  lawless 
self-will ;  and  what  Hazlitt  calls  "  a  hunger  and  thirst 
after  unrighteousness  "  assumed  the  place  of  conscience 
in  his  haughty  and  fiery  spirit.  Before  the  age  of 
twenty-three  we  find  him  in  London,  an  actor  and  a 
writer  for  the  stage,  and  the  author  of  the  "  great  sensa- 
tion work"  of  his  time,  —  the  tragedy  of  "Tambur- 
laine."  This  portentous  melodrama,  a  strange  com- 
pound of  inspiration  and  desperation,  has  the  mark  of 
power  equally  on  its  absurdities  and  its  sublimities.  The 
first  play  written  in  blank  verse  for  the  popular  stage, 
its  verse  has  an  elasticity,  freedom,  and  variety  of  move- 
ment which  makes  it  as  much  the  product  of  Marlowe's 
mind  as  the  thoughts  and  passions  it  conveys.  It  had 
no  precedent  in  the  verse  of  preceding  writers,  and  is 
constructed,  not  on  mechanical  rules,  but  on  vital  prin- 
ciples.    It  is  the  effort  of  a  glowing  mind,  disdaining  to 


MARLOWE.  27 

creep  along  paths  previously  made,  and  opening  a  new 
path  for  itself.  This  scornful  intellectual  daring,  the 
source  of  Marlowe's  originality,  is  also  the  source  of  his 
defects.  In  the  tragedy  of  "  Tamburlaine  "  he  selects 
for  his  hero  a  character  through  whom  he  can  express 
his  own  extravagant  impatience  of  physical  obstacles 
and  moral  restraints.  No  regard  is  paid  to  reality,  even 
in  the  dramatic  sense  of  the  word :  a  shaggy  and  savage 
force  dominates  over  everything.  The  writer  seems  to 
say,  with  his  truculent  hero,  "  This  is  my  mind,  and  I 
will  have  it  so."  This  self-asserting  intellectual  inso- 
lence is  accompanied  by  an  unwearied  energy,  which 
half  redeems  the  bombast  into  which  it  runs,  or  rather 
rushes  ;  and  strange  gleams  of  the  purest  splendors  of 
poetry  are  continually  transfiguring  the  bully  into  the 
bard. 

Thus,  in  the  celebrated  scene  in  which  Tamburlaine 
is  represented  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  captive  kings,  and 
berating  them  for  their  slowness  in  words  which  so  cap- 
tivated Ancient  Pistol,  there  is  a  glorious  stroke  of 
impassioned  imagination,  which  makes  us  almost  forgive 
the  swaggering  fustian  which  precedes  and  follows  it:  — 

"  Hallo!  ye  pampered  jades  of  Asia! 
What,  can  ye  draw  Init  twenty  miles  a  day?  — 

The  liorse  tliat  guide  the  golden  eye  of  heaven, 


28  MAELOWE. 

And  blow  the  morning  from  their  nostrils, 
Making  their  fiery  gait  above  the  clouds, 
Are  not  so  honored  in  their  governor 
As  you,  ye  slaves,  in  mighty  Tamburlaine." 

«  Faustus,"  "  The  Jew  of  Malta,"  «  Edward  the  Sec- 
ond," "  The  Massacre  of  Paris,"  "  Dido,  Queen  of  Car- 
thage," are  the  names  of  Marlowe's  remaining  plays. 
They  all,  more  or  less,  exhibit  the  eager  creativeness 
of  his  mind,  and  the  furious  arrogance  of  his  disposition. 
"  They  abound,"  says  Hunt,  "  in  wilful  and  self-worship- 
ping speeches,  and  every  one  of  them  turns  upon  some 
kind  of  ascendency  at  the  expense  of  other  people." 
His  "  Edward  the  Second  "  is  the  best  historical  play 
written  before  Shakespeare's,  and  exhibits  more  discrim- 
ination in  dehneating  character  than  any  of  Marlowe's 
other  efforts.  His  "  Jew  of  Malta  "  is  a  powerful  con- 
ception, marred  in  the  process  of  embodiment.  His 
"  Faustus  "  perhaps  best  reflects  his  whole  genius  and 
experience.  The  subject  must  have  taken  strong  hold 
of  his  nature,  for,  hke  Faustus,  he  had  himself  doubt- 
less held  intimate  business  relations  with  the  great 
enemy  of  mankind,  and  was  personally  conscious  of  the 
strusorle  in  the  soul  between  the  diabolical  and  the  di- 
vine.  The  characters  of  Faustus  and  Mephistopheles 
are  both  conceived  with  great  depth  and  strength  of 
imagination  ;  and  the  last  scene  of  the  play,  exhibiting 


MARLOWE.  29 

the  agony  of  supernatural  terror  in  which  Faustus 
awaits  the  coming  of  the  fiend  who  has  bought  and 
paid  for  his  soul,  is  not  without  touches  of  sublimity. 
Tlicre  is  one  line,  especially,  which  is  loaded  with 
meaning  and  suggestiveness,  —  that  in  which  harbor- 
ing for  a  moment  the  possibility  of  salvation  amid  the 
gathering  horrors  of  his  doom,  Faustus  exclaims,  — 
"  See  where  Christ's  blood  streams  iu  the  firmament!  " 

Marlowe's  life,  though  short  and  reckless,  was  fertile  in 
works.  Besides  the  plays  we  have  mentioned,  he  prob- 
ably wrote  many  which  have  been  lost ;  and  his  trans- 
lations from  Ovid,  and  his  unfinished  poem  of  "  Hero 
and  Leander,"  would  alone  give  him  a  position  among 
the  poets  of  his  period.  He  was  killed  in  a  tavern 
brawl,  in  the  year  1593,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-nine.* 

*  Beai-d,  in  his  "Theatre  of  God's  Judgments"  (1597),  makes  his 
death  the  occasion  to  point  a  ferocious  moral.  He  speaks  of  him  as 
"  by  practice  a  play-maker  and  a  poet  of  scurrilitie,  who,  by  giuing 
too  large  a  swing  to  his  owne  wit,  and  suffering  his  lust  to  haue  the 
full  rcines,"  at  last  "  denied  God  and  his  sonne  Christ,  and  not  onely 
in  word  blasphemed  the  Trinitie,  but  also  (as  it  is  credibly  reported) 
wi'ote  bookes  against  it,  affii-ming  our  Sauiour  to  be  but  a  deceiuer, 
and  Moses  to  be  but  a  coniurer  and  seducer  of  the  people,  and  the 
Holy  Bible  to  bee  but  vaine  and  idle  stories,  and  all  religion  but  a 
dcuice  of  policie.  But  see  what  a  hooke  the  Lord  put  in  the  nostrils 
of  this  barking  dogge  I  So  it  fell  out,  that,  as  he  purposed  to  stab 
one  whom  he  ought  a  grudge  vuto,  with  his  dagger,  the  other  party 


30  MARLOWE. 

Though  Marlowe's  poetical  contemporaries  and  follow- 
ers could  say  little  or  nothing  in  defence  of  his  life, 
when  it  was  mercilessly  assailed  by  Puritan  pamphlet- 
eers, there  was  no  lack  of  testimonials  to  his  genius. 
Ben  Jonson  celebrated  "  his  mighty  line  "  ;  Drayton  de- 
scribed his  raptures  as  "  all  fire  and  air,"  and  testified 
to  his  possession  of  those  "  brave,  sublunary  things  that 
the  first  poets  had";  and  Chapman,  with  a  yet  closer 
perception  of  his  uuwithholding  self-committal  to  the 

Muse,  said  that 

"  He  stood 
Up  to  the  chin  in  the  Pierian  flood." 

A  still  higher  tribute  to  his  eminence  comes  from 
Shakespeare  himself,  who,  in  his  "  As  You  Like  It," 
quotes  with  approval  a  line  from  Marlowe's  poem  of 
"  Hero  and  Leander,"  —  the  only  case  in  which  Shake- 
speare has  publicly  recognized  the  genius  of  an  Eliza- 
bethan writer. 

perceiuing  so  auoyded  the  stroke,  that  withall  catching  hold  of  his 
"wrist,  hee  stabbed  his  owne  dagger  into'  his  owne  head,  in  such  sort 
that,  uotwitlistanding  all  the  meanes  of  surgerie  that  conld  bee 
wrought,  hee  shortly  after  died  thereof ;  the  manner  of  his  death 
being  so  terrible  (for  he  euen  cursed  and  blasphemed  to  his  last  gape, 
and  together  witli  his  breath  an  oath  flew  out  of  his  mouth),  that  it 
was  not  only  a  manifeste  signe  of  God's  judgement,  but  also  an  hor- 
rible and  fearefull  terror  to  all  that  beheld  him.  But  herein  did  the 
justice  of  God  most  noteably  appeare,  in  that  hee  compelled  his  owne 
hand,  which  had  written  these  blasphemies,  to  bee  the  insti-ument  to 
punish  him,  and  that  in  his  braine  which  had  deuised  the  same." 


MARLOWE.  31 

But  this  stormy,  irregular  genius,  compound  of  Alsa- 
tian rutiian  and  Arcadian  singer,  whose  sudden  death, 
in  the  height  of  his  glory  and  his  pride,  seemed  to 
threaten  the  early  English  drama  with  irreparable  loss, 
was  to  be  succeeded  in  his  own  walk  by  the  greatest 
Englishman,  by  the  greatest  man,  that  ever  made  the 
theatre  or  literature  his  medium  of  communication  with 
the  world.  To  some  thoughts  on  this  man  —  need  we 
say  it  is  Shakespeare  ?  —  we  shall  invite  the  attention 
of  the  reader  in  the  next  chapter. 


SHAKESPEAEE, 


I. 


rriHE  biography  of  Shakespeare,  if  we  merely  look  at 
the  bulk  of  the  books  which  assume  to  record  it,  is 
both  minute  and  extensive ;  but  when  we  subject  the 
octavo  or  quarto  to  examination,  we  find  a  great  deal 
that  is  interesting  about  his  times,  and  some  shrewd  and 
some  dull  guessing  about  his  probable  actions  and  mo- 
tives, but  little  about  himself  except  a  few  dates.  He 
was  born  in  Stratford-on-Avon,  in  April,  1564,  and  was 
the  son  of  John  Shakespeare,  tradesman,  of  that  place. 
In  1582,  in  his  nineteenth  year,  he  married  Anne  Hath- 
away, aged  twenty-six.  About  the  year  1586  he  went 
to  London  and  became  a  player.  In  1589  he  was  one 
of  the  proprietors  of  the  Blackfriars  Theatre,  and  in 
1595  was  a  prominent  shareholder  in  a  larger  theatre, 
built  by  the  same  company,  called  the  Globe.  As  a 
playwright  he  seems  to  have  served  an  apprenticeship  ; 
for  he  altered,  amended,  and  added  to  the  dramas  of 
others  before  he  produced  any  himself.  Between  the 
year  1591,  or  thereabouts,  and  the  year  1613,  or 
thereabouts,  he  wrote  over  thirty  plays,  the  precise  date 


SHAKESPEARE.  33 

of  whose  composition  it  is  hardly  possible  to  fix.  He 
seems  to  have  made  yearly  visits  to  Stratford,  where  his 
wife  and  children  resided,  and  to  have  invested  money 
there  as  he  increased  in  wealth.  Mr.  Emerson  has 
noted,  that  about  the  time  he  was  writing  Macbeth,  per- 
haps the  greatest  tragedy  of  ancient  or  modern  times, 
"  he  sued  Philip  Rogers,  in  the  borough-court  of  Strat- 
foi'd,  for  thirty-five  shillings  tenpence,  for  corn  delivered 
to  him  at  various  times."  In  1G08,  Mr.  Collier  esti- 
mates his  income  at  four  hundred  pounds  a  year,  which, 
allowing  for  the  decreased  value  of  money,  is  equal  to 
eight  or  nine  thousand  dollars  at  the  present  time. 
About  the  year  1610,  he  retired  permanently  to  Strat- 
ford, though  he  continued  to  write  plays  for  the  com- 
pany with  which  he  was  connected.  He  died  on  the 
23d  of  April,  161G. 

Such  is  essentially  the  meagre  result  of  a  century  of 
research  into  the  external  life  of  Shakespeare.  As 
there  is  hardly  a  page  in  his  writings  which  does  not 
shed  more  light  upon  the  biography  of  his  mind,  and 
bring  us  nearer  to  the  individuality  of  the  man,  the  an- 
tiquaries in  despair  have  been  compelled  to  abandon 
him  to  the  psychologists  ;  and  the  moment  the  transition 
from  external  to  internal  facts  is  made,  the  most  obscure 
of  men  passes  into  the  most  notorious.  For  this  person- 
ality and  soul  we  cull  Shakespeare,  the  recorded  iuci- 
2*  c 


34  SHAKESPEARE. 

dents  of  whose  outward  career  were  so  few  and  trifling', 
lived  a  more  various  life  —  a  life  more  crowded  with 
ideas,  passions,  vohtions,  and  events  —  than  any  poten- 
tate the  world  has  ever  seen.  Compared  with  his  ex- 
perience, the  experience  of  Alexander  or  Hannibal,  of 
Ca3sar  or  Napoleon,  was  narrow  and  one-sided.  Pie 
had  projected  himself  into  almost  all  the  varieties  of 
human  character,  and,  in  imagination,  had  intensely 
realized  and  lived  the  life  of  each.  From  the  throne 
of  the  monarch  to  the  bench  of  the  village  alehouse, 
there  were  few  positions  in  which  he  had  not  placed 
himself,  and  which  he  had  not  for  a  time  identified  with 
his  own.  No  other  man  had  ever  seen  nature  and  hu- 
man life  from  so  many  points  of  view ;  for  he  had  looked 
upon  them  through  the  eyes  of  Master  Slender  and 
Hamlet,  of  Caliban  and  Othello,  of  Dogberry  and  Mark 
Antony,  of  Ancient  Pistol  and  Julius  Cassar,  of  Mistress 
Tearsheet  and  Imogen,  of  Dame  Quickly  and  Lady  Mac- 
beth, of  Robin  Goodfellow  and  Titania,  of  Hecate  and 
Ariel.  No  king  or  queen  of  his  time  had  so  completely 
fult  the  cares  and  enjoyed  the  dignity  of  the  regal  state 
as  this  playwright,  who  usurped  it  by  his  thought  alone ; 
and  the  freshest  and  simplest  maiden  in  Europe  had  no 
innocent  heart-experience  which  this  man  could  not 
share,  —  escaping,  in  an  instant,  from  the  shattered  brain 
of  Lear,  or  the  hag-haunted  imagination  of  Macbeth,  in 


SHAKESPEARE.  35 

order  to  feel  the  tender  flutter  of  licr  soul  in  his  own. 
And  none  of  these  forms,  though  mightier  or  more  ex- 
quisite than  the  ordinary  forms  of  humanity,  could  hold 
or  imprison  him  a  moment  longer  than  he  chose  to  abide 
in  it.  He  was  on  an  excursion  through  the  world  of 
thought  and  action,  to  seize  the  essence  of  all  the  ex- 
citements of  human  nature,  —  terrible,  painful,  criminal, 
rapturous,  or  humorous ;  and  to  do  this  in  a  short 
earthly  career,  he  was  compelled  to  condense  ages  into 
days,  and  lives  into  minutes.  He  exhausts,  in  a  short 
time,  all  the  glory  and  all  the  agony  there  is  on  the 
throne  or  on  the  couch  of  Henry  IV.,  and  then,  wearied 
with  royalty,  is  off  to  the  Boar's  Head  to  have  a  rouse 
with  Sir  John.  He  feels  all  the  flaming  pride  and  scorn 
of  the  aristocrat  Coriolanus;  his  brain  widens  with  the 
imperial  ideas,  and  his  heart  beats  with  the  measureless 
ambition,  of  the  autocrat  Cossar ;  and  anon  he  has 
donned  a  greasy  apron,  plunged  into  the  roaring  Roman 
mob,  and  is  yelling  against  aristocrat  and  autocrat  with 
all  the  gusto  of  democratic  rage.  He  is  now  a  prattling 
child,  and  in  a  second  he  is  the  murderer  with  the  knife 
at  its  throat.  Capable  of  heing  all  that  he  actually  or 
imaginatively  sees,  he  enters  into  at  will,  and  abandons 
at  will,  the  passions  that  brand  or  blast  other  natures. 
Avarice,  malice,  envy,  jealousy,  hatred,  revenge,  remorse,  \ 
neither  in  their  separate  nor  mutual  action  are  strong    ^ 


S&  SHAKESPEAEE. 

enough  to  fasten  him  ;  and  the  same  may  be  said  of  love 
and  pity  and  friendship  and  joy  and  ecstasy  ;  for  behind 
and  within  this  multifoi'm  personahty  is  the  person 
Shakespeare,  —  serene,  self-conscious,  vigilant,  individ- 
ualizing the  facts  of  his  consciousness,  and  pouring  his 
own  soul  into  each  creation,  without  ever  parting  with 
the  personal  identity  which  is  at  the  heart  of  all,  which 
disposes  and  co-ordinates  all,  and  which  dictates  the 
impression  to  be  left  by  all. 

And  this  fact  conducts  us  to  the  question  of  Shake- 
speare's individuality.  We  are  prone  to  place  him  as  a 
man  below  other  great  men,  because  we  make  a  distinc- 
tion between  the  man  and  his  genius.  "We  gather  our 
notion  of  Shakespeare  from  the  meagre  details  of  his 
biography,  and  in  his  biography  he  appears  little  and 
commonplace,  —  not  by  any  means  so  striking  a  person 
as  Kit  Marlowe  or  Ben  Jonson.  To  this  individuality 
we  tack  on  a  universal  genius,  —  which  is  about  as  rea- 
sonable as  it  would  be  to  take  the  controlling  power  of 
gravity  from  the  sun  and  attach  it  to  one  of  the  aste- 
roids. Shakespeare's  genius  is  not  something  distinct 
fro)7i  the  man  ;  it  is  the  expression  of  the  man,  just  as 
the  sun's  attraction  is  the  result  of  its  immense  mass. 
ii(  The  measure  of  a  man's  individuality  is  his  creative 
power ;  and  all  that  Shakespeare  created  he  individually 
included.     We  must,  therefore,  if  we  desire  to  grasp  his 


SHAKESPEARE.  37 

greatness,  discard  from  our  minds  all  associations  con- 
nected with  the  pet  e})ithet3  which  other  authors  have 
condescended  to  shower  upon  him,  such  as  "  Sweet 
Will,"  and  "  Gentle  Shakespeare,"  and  "  Fancy's  child," 
—  fond  but  belittling  phrases,  as  little  appropriate  as 
would  be  the  patronizing  chatter  of  the  planet  Venus 
about  the  dear,  darling  little  Sun ;  —  we  must  discard 
all  these  from  our  conceptions,  and  consider  him  prima- 
rily as  a  vast,  comprehensive,  personal  soul  and  force, 
that  passed  from  eternity  into  time,  with  all  the  wide 
aptitudes  and  affinities  for  the  world  he  entered  bound 
up  in  his  individual  being  from  the  beginning.  These 
aptitudes  and  affinities,  these  quick,  deep,  and  varied 
sympathies,  were  so  many  inlets  of  the  world  without 
him ;  and  facts  pouring  into  such  a  nature  were  swiftly 
organized  intd  faculties.  Nothing,  indeed,  amazes  us  so 
much,  in  the  biography  of  Shakespeare's  mind,  as  the 
preternatural  rapidity  with  which  he  assimilated  knowl- 
edge into  power,  and  experience  into  insight.  The 
might  of  his  personality  is  indicated  by  its  resistance  to, 
as  much  as  its  breadth  is  evinced  by  its  receptivity  of, 
objects ;  for  his  foi'ce  was  never  overwhelmed  or  sub- 
merged by  the  multiplicity  of  impressions  that  unceas- 
ingly rushed  in  upon  it.  His  soul  lay  genially  open  to 
the  world  of  nature  and  human  life,  to  receive  the  ob- 
jects that  went  streaming  into  it,  but  never  parted  with 


38  SHAKESPEARE. 

the  power  of  reacting  upon  all  it  received.  This  would 
not  be  so  marvellous  had  he  merely  taken  in  the  forms 
and  outside  appearances  of  things.  All  his  perceptions, 
however,  were  vital ;  and  the  life  and  force  of  the  ob- 
jects he  drew  into  his  consciousness  tugged  with  his 
own  life  and  force  for  the  mastery,  and  ended  in  simply 
enriching  the  spirit  they  strove  to  subdue.  This  inde- 
structible spiritual  energy,  which  becomes  mightier  with 
every  exercise  of  might ;  which  plucks  out  the  heart 
and  absorbs  the  vitality  of  everything  it  touches  ;  which 
daringly  commits  itself  to  the  fiercest,  and  joyously  to 
the  softest  passions,  without  losing  its  moral  and  mental 
sanity ;  which  in  the  most  terrible  excitements  is  as 
"  tlie  blue  dome  of  air "  to  the  tempest  that  rages  be- 
neath it ;  which,  aiming  to  include  everything,  refuses 
to  be  included  by  anything,  and  in  the  sweep  of  its 
creativeness  acts  with  a  confident  audacity,  as  if  in  it 
Nature  were  humanized  and  humanity  individualized  ;  — 
in  short,  this  unexampled  energy  of  blended  sensibihty, 
intelligence,  and  will,  is  what  constitutes  the  man  Shake- 
speare ;  and  this  man  is  no  mere  name  for  an  impersonal, 
unconscious  genius,  that  did  its  marvels  by  instinct,  no 
name  for  a  careless  playwriglit  who  blundered  into  mir- 
acles, but  is  essentially  a  person,  creating  strictly  within 
the  limitations  of  his  individuality,  —  within  those  limi- 
tations appearing  to  be  impersonal  only  because  he  is 


SHAKESPEARE.  39 

comprehensive  enougli  to  cover  a  veide  variety  of  special 
natures,  —  and,  above  all,  a  person  individually  as  great, 
at  least,  as  the  sum  of  his  whole  works. 

In  regard  to  the  real  mystery  of  this  man's  power, 
both  criticism  and  philosophy  are  mute.  His  appear- 
ance is  simply  a  fact  in  the  world's  intellectual  history, 
which  can  be  connected  with  no  preceding  fact  nor  with 
the  spirit  of  his  age.  "  It  is  the  nature  of  poetry," 
says  Emerson,  "  to  spring,  like  the  rainbow  daughter  of 
Wonder,  from  the  invisible,  to  abolish  the  past,  and  to 
refuse  all  history."  All  that  we  know  is,  that  the  ca- 
pacities and  splendors  of  Shakespeare's  mind  existed 
potentially  in  the  vital  germ  of  the  spiritual  nature  born 
with  him  into  the  world  ;  and  that  his  works  are  the 
result  of  the  unfolding  of  this.  The  glory  of  the  EHza- 
bethan  age,  it  is  absurd  to  call  him  its  product,  for  the 
puzzle  is  not  so  much  the  peculiarities  of  what  he  assim- 
ilated as  his  powers  of  assimiliation,  and  in  any  age 
these  powers  would  probably  have  worked  equal,  if 
different  effects.  Take,  for  instance,  single  thoughts 
and  imaginations  of  his,  such  as  the  following,  and  see 
if  you  can  account  for  them  by  any  knowledge  you  have 
of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  England  of  Eliza- 
beth :  — 

"  The  morning  steals  upon  tlic  night, 
Melting  the  dai'kness." 


40  SHAKESPEARE. 

"  How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! " 

"  The  benediction  of  these  covering  heavens 
Fall  on  their  heads  like  dew." 

Things  evil  "  are  our  outward  consciences." 

A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  a  king, 
Until  a  king  be  by ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters." 

0  Westmoreland !  thou  art  a  summer  bird, 
Which  ever  in  the  haunch  of  winter  sings 
The  lifting  up  of  day." 

"  Cheer  your  heart : 
Be  you  not  troubled  with  the  time,  which  drives 
O'er  your  content  these  strong  necessities ; 
But  let  determined  things  to  Destiny 
Hold  unbewailed  their  way." 

But  single  passages  like  these,  though  they  hint  of 
the  inmost  essence  of  tlie  poet,  and  drop  upon  the  mind, 
as  Carlyle  says,  "  like  a  splendor  out  of  heaven,"  — 
though  they  demonstrate  the  independence  of  time  and 
place  of  the  imagination  whence  they  come,  —  are  still 
no  adequate  measure  of  Shakespeare's  power.  If,  how- 
ever, we  pass  from  these  to  what  is  a  more  decisive 
test  of  his  self-conscious,  self-directed  creative  energy, 
namely,  to  his  mode  of  organizing  a  whole  drama,  we 
shall  find  that  his   method,   processes,  and  results  are 


SHAKESPEARE.  41 

different  from  those  of  the  dramatists  of  his  own  age  or 
of  any  other  age.  The  materials  he  uses  are  as  nothing 
when  coinjDared  with  his  transformation  of  them  into 
works  of  art.  Let  us,  in  illustration,  glance  at  his 
method  of  creation,  as  successfully  exerted  in  any  one 
of  his  great  dramas,  say  Hamlet,  or  King  Lear,  or  Mac- 
beth, or  Othello. 

He  takes  a  story  or  a  history,  with  Avhich  the  peo^ile 
are  familiar,  the  whole  interest  of  which  is  narrative. 
He  finds  it  a  mere  succession  of  incidents  ;  he  leaves  it 
a  combination  of  events.  He  finds  the  persons  named 
in  it  mere  commonplace  sketches  of  humanity  ;  he  leaves 
them  self-subsisting,  individual  characters,  more  real  to 
the  mind  than  the  men  and  women  we  daily  meet. 

Now  the  first  fact  that  strikes  us  when  we  compare 
the  original  story  with  Shakespeare's  magical  ti'ansform- 
ation  of  it  is,  that  everything  is  raised  from  the  actual 
world  into  a  Shakespearian  world.  He  altex'S,  enlarges, 
expands,  enriches,  enlivens,  informs,  recreates  every- 
thing, lifting  sentiment,  passion,  humor,  thought,  action, 
to  the  level  of  his  own  nature.  Through  incidents  and 
through  characters  is  shot  Shakespeare's  soul,  —  a  soul 
that  yields  itself  to  every  mould  of  being,  from  the 
clown  to  the  monarch,  endows  every  class  of  character 
it  animates  with  the  Shakespearian  felicity  and  certainty 
of  speech,  and,  being  in  all  as  well  as  in  each,  so  con- 


42  SHAKESPEARE. 

nects  and  relates  the  ^society  he  has  called  into  life,  that 
they  unite  to  fonn  a  whole,  while  existing  with  perfect 
distinctness  as  parts.  The  characters  are  not  developed 
by  isolation,  but  by  sympathy  or  collision,  and  the  closer 
they  come  together  the  less  they  run  together.  They 
are  independent  of  each  other,  and  yet  necessitate  each 
other.  None  of  them  could  appear  in  any  other  play 
without  exciting  disorder ;  yet  in  this  play  their  discord 
conduces  to  the  general  harmony.  And  so  tough  is  the 
hold  on  existence  of  these  beings  that,  though  thousands 
of  millions  of  men  and  women  have  been  born,  have 
died,  and  have  been  forgotten  since  they  were  created, 
and  though  the  actual  world  has  strangely  changed, 
these  men  and  women  of  Shakespeare's  are  still  alive, 
and  Shakespeare's  world  still  remains  untouched  by 
time. 

This  drama,  thus  made  self-existent  in  the  free  heaven 
of  art,  implies,  in  its  conception  and  execution,  processes 
analogous  to  those  which  are  followed  by  Natui'e  her- 
self in  the  production  of  her  works ;  and  modern  critics 
have  not  hesitated  to  award  to  Shakespeare  the  distinc- 
tion of  being  an  organizer  after  her  pattern.  The 
drama  which  we  have  been  describing  is,  like  her  works, 
not  simple,  but  complex.  It  has  unity,  it  has  the  widest 
variety,  it  has  unity  in  variety.  The  most  diverse  and 
seemingly  heterogeneous  materials   all   aid    to  form   a 


SHAKESPEARE.  43 

whole,  "  vital  in  every  part "  ;  and  the  organization  is 
strictly  an  addition  to  the  world,  with  nothing  in  litera- 
ture and  nothing  in  nature  which  exactly  matches  it. 
And  it  is  alive,  and  refuses  to  die.  Nature  herself  is 
compelled  to  adopt  it  into  her  race, 

"  And  give  to  it  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat." 

You  can  gaze  at  it  as  you  can  gaze  at  a  natural  land- 
scape, where  hills,  rocks,  woods,  stubble,  grass,  clouds, 
sky,  atmosphere,  each  separate,  each  related,  combine  to 
form  one  imjaressive  effect  of  beauty  and  power. 

Perhaps,  however,  it  would  be  more  proper  to  call 
this  Shakespearian  drama  an  approximation  to  an  or- 
ganic product,  rather  than  a  realization  of  one.  The 
processes  of  nature  are  followed,  but  the  perfection  of 
nature  is  the  ideal  it  aims  at  rather  than  reaches.  Still, 
if  we  allow  for  human  defects  and  imperfections,  and 
take  into  view  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  had  to  submit 
to  conditions  imposed  by  his  audience  as  well  as  condi- 
tions imposed  by  his  genius,  his  work  measurably  fulfils 
the  requirements  of  Kant's  concise  definition  of  an  or- 
ganic creation,  namely,  "that  thing  in  which  all  the 
parts  are  mutually  ends  and  means." 

Admitting,  then,  that  the  drama  we  are  considering 
has  organic  form,  and  not  merely  mechanical  regularity, 
the  question  arises,  What  is  the  inner  law,  the  central 


44  SHAKESPEAEE. 

idea,  the  pi'Inciple  of  life,  by  which,  and  in  obedience  to 
which,  it  was  organized  ?  Perhaps  the  new  school  of 
philosophic  critics  have  done  almost  as  much  injury  to 
Shakespeare's  fame,  in  their  attempt  to  answer  this 
question,  as  they  have  done  good  in  rescuing  his  dramas 
from  the  old  school  of  sciolists  and  commentators,  who 
were  pecking  at  him  with  their  formal  rules  of  taste. 
The  philosophic  critics  very  properly  insisted  that  he 
should  be  judged  by  principles  deduced  from  his  own 
method,  and  not  by  rules  generalized  from  the  method 
of  the  Greek  dramatists  ;  that  the  laws  by  which  he 
should  be  tried  were  the  laws  which  he  acknowledged 
and  obeyed,  the  laws  of  his  own  creative  imagination ; 
and  that  the  very  originality  of  his  dramas  freed  them 
from  tests  which  are  applicable  only  to  the  products 
of  imitation.  They  thus  raised  Shakespeare  from  a 
breaker  of  the  laws  into  a  lawgiver ;  and  the  brilliant 
vagabond,  whom  every  catchpole  of  criticism  thought  he 
could  hustle  about  and  reprimand,  was  all  at  once  lifted 
into  a  dictator  of  law  to  the  bench. 

Having  relieved  Shakespeare  from  these  policemen 
of  letters,  and  substituted  some  reach  of  human  vision 
for  their  rat's  eyes,  the  new  school  of  philosophic  critics 
proceeded  to  state  what  zoere  the  ideas  which  formed 
the  ground-plans  and  organizing  principles  of  his  works; 
but  in  doing  this,  they  brought  Shakespeare  down  to 


SHAKESPEARE.  45 

their  own  level,  and  made  him  their  spokesman.  Intel- 
lectual egotism  supplanted  intellectual  interpretation. 
Read  Schlegel,  Ulrici,  even  Gervinus,  and  you  are  de- 
lighted as  long  as  they  confine  themselves  to  the  busi- 
ness  of  exposing  the  folly  of  the  ci-itics  they  supplanted  ; 
but  when  they  come  to  the  real  problem,  and  attempt  to 
state  the  meaning  and  purpose  of  Shakespeare  in  any 
given  play,  you  are  apt  to  be  as  much  surprised  as  was 
that  philanthropist,  who  was  confidentially  informed  that 
the  ultimate  object  Napoleon  had  in  view  in  his  nu- 
merous wars  was  the  establishment  of  Sunday  schools. 
They  find  in  Shakespeare's  plays  certain  ethical,  politi- 
cal, or  social  generalities,  which,  it  seems,  they  were 
written  to  illustrate,  or  rather  from  which  the  plays 
grow,  as  from  so  many  roots.  But  causes  are  to  be 
measured  by  effects  ;  the  effects  here  are  marvellous 
structures  of  genius  ;  and  these  do  not  shoot  up  from 
the  withered  roots  of  barren  truisms.  A  whole  must  be 
greater  than  any  of  its  parts ;  and  yet  the  philosophic 
idea  of  a  Shakespearian  drama,  as  eliminated  by  the 
German  professors,  is  less  than  the  least  of  its  parts. 
A  single  magical  word  in  Shakespeai'e  is  often  greater, 
and  has  more  reach  of  application,  than  the  professorial 
bit  of  wisdom  which  they  present  as  the  grand  total  of 
the  play,  and  which  is  often  too  obvious  in  itself  to  make 
a  resort  to  Shakespeare  necessary  for  a  perception  of 


46  SHAKESPEARE. 

its  truth.  Their  "  ground  ideas  "  of  the  dramas  are  not 
worth  any  minor  Shakespearian  ideas  they  are  assumed 
to  include. 

Indeed,  before  we  claim  to  understand  a  Shake- 
spearian whole,  we  must  first  see  if  we  are  competent 
to  take  in  one  of  its  parts.  It  is  evident  that  the  most 
important  parts  are  the  characters,  and  in  respect  to 
these,  and  to  Shakespeare's  method  of  characterization, 
there  is  much  misconception.  What  are  these  charac- 
ters ?  Are  they  copies  of  men  and  women,  as  we  see 
them  in  the  world,  —  slightly  idealized  portraits  of  per- 
sons, witty,  passionate,  thoughtful,  or  criminal  ?  Are 
they  such  people  as  Shakespeare  might  have  seen  in  the 
streets  of  London  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  ?  No,  for 
they  are  plainly  Shakespearian,  and  not  merely  Eliza- 
bethan. Even  the  court-fools  are  endowed  with  the 
Shakespearian  quality,  are  perfect  of  their  kind,  and 
are  such  court-fools  as  Shakespeare  might  have  con- 
ceived himself  to  be  one  of,  if  he  had,  in  Mr.  "Weller's 
phrase,  "  been  born  in  that  station  of  life." 

Yet  these  characters  are  certainly  not  individualized 
qualities  and  passions,  for  they  are  eminently  natural. 
If  their  naturalness  does  not  come  from  their  being  por- 
traits, slightly  varied  and  heightened,  of  individuals,  in 
what  does  their  naturalness  consist  ? 

In  answer  to  this  question,  it  is  first  to  be  said,  that 


SHAKESPEARE.  47 

these  characters  prove  that  Shakespeare  had  a  concep- 
tion of  human  nature,  abstracted  from  all  individuals. 
He  not  only  looked  at  individuals,  and  into  individuals, 
but  through  individuals  to  their  common  basis  in  hu- 
manity. But  he  did  not  rest  here.  This  imaginative 
analysis,  this  vital  generalization,  this  glance  into  the 
Fources  of  things,  evinces,  of  course,  his  possession  of 
the  profoundest  philososophical  genius  as  the  foundation 
of  his  dramatic  genius;  but  it  is  not  the  genius  itself, 
for  he  also  surveyed  human  nature  in  action,  human  na- 
ture as  modified  by  human  life,  by  mannei'S,  customs, 
institutions,  and  beliefs,  and  by  that  primitive  person- 
ality which  separates  men,  as  humanity  unites  them. 

These  characters,  then,  are  individual  natures  rooted 
in  human  nature.  The  question  then  arises,  Is  their 
individuality  particular  or  representative  ?  The  least 
observation  shows,  we  think,  that  they  stand  for  more 
than  individuals.  We  are  continually  saying  that  this 
or  that  pei'son  of  our  acquaintance  resembles  one  of 
Shakespeare's  characters ;  we  may  even  learn  much 
about  him  by  studying  the  character  he  resembles ;  but 
we  never  thoroughly  identify  him  with  the  character ; 
for  the  character  is  more  powerful,  more  perfectly  de- 
veloped, acts  out  the  law  of  his  being  with  more  free- 
dom, than  the  actual  person  with  whom  he  is  compared. 

Further  than  this,  —  if  w^e  are  accustomed  to  classify 


48  SHAKESPEARE 

the  persons  we  know,  so  as  to  include  many  individuals 
under  one  type,  we  shall  find  that  we  can  include  scores 
of  our  acquaintances  in  one  of  Shakespeai'e's  characters, 
and  then  not  exhaust  its  full  application.  It  is  not, 
therefore,  his  mere  variety  of  characterization,  but  some- 
thing peculiar  in  each  of  the  varieties,  which  makes  him 
pre-eminently  the  poet  of  human  nature.  Why,  for 
example,  is  not  Charles  Dickens  as  great  a  novelist  as 
Shakespeare  is  a  dramatist  ?  Dickens  has  delineated 
as  wide  a  variety  of  persons  as  Shakespeare,  if  by  vari- 
ety we  mean  the  absence  of  repetition.  There  is  no 
reason  but  the  shortness  of  life  why  he  should  not  peo- 
ple literature  with  new  individuals,  until  his  characters 
are  numbered  by  the  thousand,  all  in  a  certain  sense 
original,  all  discriminated  from  each  other,  but  few  or 
none  representative.  The  single  character  of  Hamlet 
represents  more  individuals  than  do  all  the  individuals 
Dickens  has  delineated. 

Again,  Jane  Austen  is  placed  by  Macaulay  next  to 
Shakespeare  for  the  felicity,  certainty,  and  nicety  of  her 
portraitures  of  character.  The  most  evanescent  lines 
of  distinction  between  persons  who  appear  alike  she  seizes 
with  wonderful  tact,  and  indicates  these  differences  with- 
out the  least  resort  to  caricature.  If  the  best  character- 
ization means  simply  the  best  portrait-painting,  there  is 
no  reason  why  Elizabeth,  in  "  Pride  and  Prejudice," 


SHAKESPEARE.  49 

should  not  be  placed  side  by  side  with  Juliet  and  Cor- 
delia. 

But  everybody  feels  that  neither  Dickens,  with  his 
range  of  observation,  nor  Jane  Austen,  with  her  sub- 
tilty  of  observation,  makes  any  approach  to  Sliake- 
speare.     What  is  the  reason  ? 

The  reason  is,  that  Shakespeare  does  not  paint  indi- 
viduals, but  individualizes  classes.  In  his  great  nature, 
tlie  processes  of  reason  and  imagination,  of  philosophic 
insight  and  poetic  insight,  worked  harmoniously  together. 
His  observation  of  persons  only  supplied  him  with  hints 
for  his  creations.  He  did  not  take  up  at  haphazard  this 
man  and  that  woman,  and,  because  of  their  oddity  or 
beauty,  reproduce  them  in  his  story ;  but  he  distin- 
guished in  each  actual  person  the  signs  of  a  class  na- 
ture, midway  between  his  general  nature  and  his  indi- 
vidual peculiarities.  He  classified  men  as  the  naturalist 
classifies  the  Animal  Kingdom.  Agassiz  is  not  confused 
by  the  perplexing  spectacle  of  the  myriads  of  animals 
which  form  the  materials  of  his  science  ;  for  the  moment 
his  eye  lights  upon  them,  they  fall  into  certain  great 
natural  divisions,  distinguished  by  recognized  marks 
of  structure.  Under  each  of  a  few  grand  divisions  he 
includes  innumerable  individuals.  Now  the  difference 
between  Agassiz  and  a  mere  observer  and  describer  of 
animals    is    the   difference    between    Shakespeai'c   and 


50  SHAKESPEARE. 

Dickens,  only  that  Shakespeare  works  on  phenomena 
more  complicated,  and  presenting  more  obstacles  to 
classification,  than  Agassiz  deals  with. 

In  his  deep,  wide,  and  searcliing  observation  of  man- 
kind, Shakespeare  detects  bodies  of  men  who  agree  in 
the  general  tendencies  of  their  characters,  who  strive 
after  a  common  ideal  of  good  or  evil,  and  who  all  fail  to 
reach  it.  Through  these  indications  and  hints  he  seizes, 
by  his  philosophical  genius,  the  law  of  the  class  ;  by 
his  dramatic  genius,  he  gathers  up  in  one  conception  the 
whole  multitude  of  individuals  comprehended  in  the 
law,  and  embodies  it  in  a  character  ;  and  by  his  poet- 
ical genius  he  lifts  this  character  into  an  ideal  region  of 
life,  where  all  hindrances  to  the  free  and  full  develop- 
ment of  its  nature  are  removed.  The  character  seems 
all  the  more  natural  because  it  is  perfect  of  its  hind, 
whereas  the  actual  persons  included  in  the  conception 
are  imperfect  of  their  kind.  Tlius  there  are  many  men 
of  the  type  of  Falstaff,  but  Shakespeare's  Falstaff  is  not 
an  actual  Falstaff.  Falstaff  is  the  ideal  head  of  the  fam- 
ily, the  possibility  which  they  dimly  strive  to  realize,  the 
person  they  would  be  if  they  could.  Again,  there  are 
many  Tagoish  men,  but  only  one  lago,  the  ideal  type  of 
them  all ;  and  by  studying  him  we  learn  what  they 
would  all  become  if  circumstances  were  propitious,  and 
their   loose  malignant  tendencies  were  firmly  knit  to- 


SHAKESPEARE.  51 

gether  in  positive  will  and  diabolically  alert  intelligence. 
And  it  is  the  same  with  the  rest  of  Shakespeare's  great 
creations.  The  immense  domain  of  human  nature  they 
cover  is  due  to  the  fact,  not  merely  that  they  are  not 
repetitions  of  individuals,  but  that  they  are  not  repeti- 
tions of  the  same  types  or  classes  of  individuals. 
The  moment  we  analyze  them,  the  moment  we  break 
them  up  into  their  constituent  elements,  we  are  amazed 
at  the  wealth  of  wisdom  and  knowledge  which  formed 
the  materials  of  each  individual  embodiment,  and  the 
inexhaustible  interest  and  fulness  of  meaning  and  appli- 
cation revealed  in  the  analytic  scrutiny  of  each.  Com- 
pare, for  example,  Shakespeare's  Timon  of  Athens  — 
by  no  means  one  of  Shakespeare's  mightiest  efforts  of 
characterization  —  with  Lord  Byron,  both  as  man  and 
poet,  and  we  shall  find  that  Timon  is  the  highest  logical 
result  of  the  Byronic  tendency,  and  that  in  him,  rather 
than  in  Byron,  the  essential  misanthrope  is  impersonated. 
The  number  of  poems  which  Byron  wrote  does  not  af- 
fect the  matter  at  all,  because  the  poems  are  all  expan- 
sions and  variations  of  one  view  of  life,  from  which 
Byron  could  not  escape.  Shakespeare,  had  he  pleased, 
might  have  filled  volumes  with  Timon's  poetic  misan- 
thropy ;  but,  being  a  condenser,  he  was  contented  with 
concentrating  the  idea  of  the  whole  class  in  one  grand 
character,  and  of  putting  into  his  mouth  the  truest,  most 


62  SHAKESPEARE. 

splendid,  most  terrible  things  which  have  ever  been 
uttered  from  the  misanthropic  point  of  view  ;  and  then, 
victoriously  freeing  himself  from  the  dreadful  mood  of 
mind  he  had  imaginatively  realized,  he  passed  on  to  oc- 
cupy other  and  different  natures.  Shakespeare  is  su- 
perior to  Byron  on  Byron's  own  ground,  because  Shake- 
speare grasped  misanthropy  from  its  first,  faint  begin- 
nings in  the  soul  to  its  final  result  on  character,  — 
clutched  its  inmost  essence,  —  discerned  it  as  one  out 
of  a  hundred  subjective  conditions  of  mind,  —  tried  it 
thoroughly,  and  found  it  was  too  weak  and  narrow  to  hold 
him.  Byron  was  in  it,  could  not  escape  from  it,  and 
never,  therefore,  thoroughly  mastered  the  philosophy  of 
it.  Here,  then,  in  one  corner  of  Shakespeare's  mind, 
we  find  more  than  ample  space  for  so  great  a  poet  as 
Byron  to  house  himself. 

But  Shakespeare  not  only  in  one  conception  thus  in- 
dividualizes a  whole  class  of  men,  but  he  communicates 
to  each  character,  be  it  little  or  colossal,  good  or  evil, 
that  peculiar  Shakespearian  quality  which  distinguishes 
it  as  his  creation.  This  he  does  by  being  and  living  for 
the  time  the  person  he  conceives.  What  Macaulay  says 
of  Bacon  is  more  applicable  to  Shakespeare,  namely, 
that  his  mind  resembles  the  tent  which  the  fairy  gave  to 
Prince  Ahmed.  "  Fold  it,  and  it  seemed  a  toy  for  the 
hand  of  a  lady.     Spread  it,  and  the  armies  of  powerful 


SHAKESPEARE.  53 

sultans  might  repose  beneath  its  shade."  Shakespeare 
could  run  his  sentiment,  passion,  reason,  imagination, 
into  any  mould  of  personality  he  was  capable  of  shaping, 
and  think  and  speak  from  that.  The  result  is  that  every 
character  is  a  denizen  of  the  Shakespearian  World  ; 
every  character,  from  Master  Slender  to  Ariel,  is  in 
some  sense  a  poet,  that  is,  is  gifted  with  imagination  to 
express  his  whole  nature,  and  make  himself  inwardly 
known  ;  yet  we  feel  throughout  that  the  "  thousand- 
souled"  Shakespeare  is  still  but  one  soul,  capable  of 
shifting  into  a  thousand  forms,  but  leaving  its  peculiar 
birth-mark  on  every  individual  it  informs. 

Now  it  is  difficult,  perhaps  impossible,  for  a  critic  to 
reproduce  synthetically  in  his  own  consciousness,  or 
thoroughly  to  analyze  into  all  its  elements,  any  single 
prominent  character  that  Shakespeare  has  drawn.  His 
characters,  however,  are  not  represented  apart  from 
each  other,  but  as  acting  on  each  other ;  and,  great 
as  they  separately  are  as  conceptions,  they  are  but  in- 
tegral portions  of  a  still  mightier  conception,  which  in- 
cludes the  whole  drama  in  which  they  appear.  The 
value  of  what  we  call  the  incidents  of  such  a  drama  con- 
sists in  their  being  such  incidents  as  would  most  nat- 
urally spring  from  the  mutual  action  of  such  persons,  or 
as  would  best  develop  their  natures.  The  plot  is  of 
small  account  as  disconnected  from  the  characters,  but 


/ 


54  SHAKESPEARE. 

of  great  moment  as  vitally  inwrought  with  them,  and 
giving  coherence  to  the  living  organism  which  results 
from  the  combination.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  we  pay 
little  heed  to  improbable  incidents  in  the  story,  provided 
the  incidents  serve  to  bring  out  the  persons.  It  is  very 
improbable  that  a  bond  should  have  been  given  payable 
in  a  pound  of  flesh,  and  still  more  so  that  any  court  in 
.  Christendom  could  have  recognized  its  validity ;  but 
""T'^  who  thinks  of  this  in  the  Shakespearian  society  of  "The 
Merchant  of  Venice  "  ? 

Now  it  is  doubtless  true  that  a  drama  of  Shakespeare 
thus  organized,  with  characters  comprehending  an  im- 
mense range  of  human  character,  and  yielding  to  analy- 
sis laws  of  human  nature  which  radiate  light  into  whole 
departments  of  human  life,  produces  on  our  minds,  as 
Ave  read,  the  effect  of  unity  in  variety.  We  perceive  it 
as  a  whole,  and  think  therefore  we  perceive  the  whole 
of  it.  But  is  it  true  that  we  really  receive  the  colossal 
conception  of  Shakespeai'e  himself  ?  Shakespeare,  it  is 
plain,  can  only  convey  to  us  what  we  are  capable  of 
taking  in  ;  the  mind  that  perceives  reduces  greatness 
to  its  own  mental  stature  ;  and  persons,  according  to 
their  taste,  culture,  experience,  height  of  intelligence, 
capacity  of  approaching  Shakespeare  himself,  obtain 
different  impressions,  varying  in  depth  and  breadth,  of 
each  of  his  great  plays.   /Who,  for  instance,  has  stated 


lays,   h 


X 


SHAKESPEARE.  65 

the  general  conception  of  the  play  of  "  Hamlet "  ?  The 
idea  of  that  drama,  as  given  by  different  critics,  is  only 
so  much  of  the  idea  as  could  be  got  into  the  heads  of 
the  critics.  Their  interpretation  at  best  belongs  to  the 
class  of  3Iemoires  'pour  servir  ;  —  the  rounded  whole  is 
described  by  minds  that  are  angular  ;  and  Shakespeare's 
conception  is  measuring  them,  while  they  are  felicitating 
themselves  that  they  are  measuring  it. 

Even  Goethe,  the  most  comprehensive  intelligence  / 
since  Shakespeare,  failed  to  "  pluck  out  the  heart "  of^^^ 
Hamlet's  mystery.  Indeed,  it  is  beginning  to  be  con- 
sidered, that  his  remarks  on  the  character,  thongh  deli- 
cate and  profound  in  themselves,  do  not  touch  the  es- 
sential individuality  of  Hamlet ;  that  his  ingenuity  was 
exercised  in  the  wrong  direction  ;  and  that,  in  his  criti- 
cism, he  resembled  the  sturdy  and  rajsid  walker,  who 
checked  his  pace  to  ask  a  boy  hoAV  far  it  was  to  Taun- 
ton. "If  you  go  on  in  the  way  you  're  now  go- 
ing," was  the  reply,  "  it 's  twenty-four  thousand  miles  ; 
if  you  turn  back,  it 's  only  five."  But  though  some 
critics  since  Goethe  have  not  been  so  elaborately  wrong 
as  he,  Hamlet  is  still  outside  of  the  largest  thought  in 
the  right  direction.  A  distinguished  thinker  has  said 
that  there  are  moods  of  the  mind  in  which  Hamlet  ap- 
pears little,  for  what  he  suggests  is  infinitely  more  than 
what  he  is.     This  is  true  as  to  Shakespeare,  but  not  true 


56  SHAKESPEARE. 

as  to  other  minds  ;  for  until  we  have  grasped  the  con- 
ception that  Shakespeare  has  embodied,  we  have  no 
right  to  suppose  ourselves  capable  of  going  beyond  it 
into  that  vastness  of  contemplation  of  which,  from 
Shakespeare's  height  of  vision,  the  character  was  an  in- 
adequate cxpi'cssion.  Again,  it  is  a  common  remark, 
that  the  school  of  philosophic  critics,  especially  in  their 
attempts  to  dive  into  the  meaning  of  Hamlet,  arc  con- 
tinually giving  Shakespeare  the  credit  of  their  owu 
thoughts.  Giving  Shakespeare  the  credit !  Well  might 
he  reply,  if  such  were  the  case,  "  Beggar  that  I  am, 
I  am  even  poor  in  thanks  ! " 

Shakespeare,  then,  as  regards  bis  most  gigantic  con- 
ceptions, has  probably  never  been  adequately  conceived. 
He  must  be  tried  by  his  peers ;  and  where  are  his 
peers  ?  We  know  that  he  grows  in  mental  stature  as 
our  minds  enlarge,  and  as  we  increase  in  our  knowledge 
of  him ;  but  he  has  never  been  included  by  criticism  as 
other  poets  have  been  included.  The  greatest  and  most 
interpretative  minds  which  have  made  him  their  study, 
though  they  may  have  commenced  with  wielding  the 
rod,  soon  found  themselves  seduced  into  taking  seats  on 
the  benches,  anxious  to  learn  instead  of  impatient  to 
teach  ;  and  have  been  compelled  to  admit  that  the  poet 
who  is  the  delight  of  the  rudest  urchin  in  the  pit  of  the 
playhouse,  is  also  the  poet  whose  works  defy  the  highest 
faculties  of  the  philosopher  thoroughly  to  comprehend. 


SHAKESPEAEE. 


II. 


T"N  the  last  chapter  we  spoke  of  Shakespeare's  general 
comprehensiveness  and  creativeness,  of  his  method 
of  characterization,  and  of  tlie  identity  of  his  genius  with 
his  individuahty.  We  purpose  now  to  treat  of  some 
particular  topics  included  in  the  general  theme ;  and,  as 
criticism  on  him  is  like  coasting  along  a  continent,  we 
shall  make  little  pretension  to  system  in  the  order  of 
taking  them  up. 

The  first  of  these  topics  is  the  succession  of  Shake- 
speare's works,  considered  as  steps  in  the  growth  and 
development  of  his  jDowers,  —  a  subject  which  has  al- 
ready been  ably  handled  by  Mr.  Verplanck.  The  facts, 
as  far  as  they  can  be  ascertained,  are  these.  Shake- 
speare went  to  London  about  the  year  158G,  in  his 
twenty-second  year,  and  found  some  humble  employ- 
ment in  one  of  the  theatrical  companies.  Three  years 
afterwards,  in  1589,  he  had  risen  to  be  one  of  the  share- 
holders of  the  Blackfriars  Theatre.  In  1592  he  had  ac- 
quired  sufficient  reputation  as  a  dramatist,  or  at  least  as 
a  recaster  of  the  plays  of  others,  to  excite  the  jealousy 
3* 


58  SHAKESPEARE. 

of  the  leading  playwrights,  -whose  crude  dramas  he 
condescended  to  rewrite  or  retouch.  That  graceless 
vagabond,  Eobert  Greene,  addressing  from  his  penitent 
death-bed  his  old  friends  Lodge,  Peele,  and  Marlowe, 
and  trying  to  dissuade  them  from  "  spending  their 
wits  "  any  longer  in  "  making  plays,"  spitefully  asserts  : 
"  There  is  an  upstart  crow  beautified  with  our  feathers, 
that,  with  his  tiger's  heart  wrapped  in  a  player's  hide, 
supposes  he  is  as  able  to  bombast  out  a  blank  verse  as 
the  best  of  you  ;  and,  being  an  absolute  Johannes  Fac- 
totum, is.  in  his  own  conceit,  the  only  Shake-scene  in 
the  country."  Doubtless  this  charge  of  adopting  and 
adapting  the  productions  of  others  includes  some  dramas 
which  have  not  been  preserved,  as  the  company  to 
which  Shakespeare  was  attached  owned  the  manuscripts 
of  a  great  number  of  plays  which  were  never  printed, 
and  it  was  a  custom,  when  a  play  had  popular  elements 
in  it,  for  other  dramatists  to  be  employed  in  making 
such  additions  as  would  give  continual  novelty  to  the 
old  favorite.  But  of  the  plays  published  in  our  editions 
of  Shakespeare's  writings,  it  is  probable  that  the  Com- 
edy of  Errors,  and  the  three  parts  of  King  Henry  VI., 
are  only  partially  his,  and  should  be  classed  among 
his  adaptations,  and  not  among  his  early  creations. 
Tlie  play  of  Pericles  bears  no  marks  of  his  mind,  ex- 
cept in  some  scenes  of  transcendent  power  and  beauty, 


SHAKESPEARE.  59 

which  start  up  from  the  rest  of  the  work  like  towers 
of  gold  from  a  j^lain  of  sand  ;  but  these  scenes  are  in 
his  latest  manner.  In  regard  to  the  tragedy  of  Titus 
Andronicus,  we  are  so  constituted  as  to  resist  all  the 
external  evidence  by  which  such  a  shapeless  mass  of 
horrors  and  absurdities  is  fastened  on  Shakespeare. 
Mr.  Verplanck  thinks  it  one  of  Shakespeare's  first  at- 
tempts at  dramatic  composition  ;  but  first  attempts  must 
reflect  the  mental  condition  of  the  author  at  the  time 
they  were  made ;  and  we  know  the  mental  condition 
of  Shakespeare  in  his  early  manhood  by  his  poem  of 
Venus  and  Adonis,  which  he  expressly  styles  "the 
first  heir  of  his  invention."  Now  leaving  out  of  view 
the  fact  that  Titus  Andronicus  stamps  the  impression, 
not  of  youthful,  but  of  matured  depravity  of  taste,  its 
execrable  enormities  of  feeling  and  incident  could  not 
have  proceeded  from  the  sweet  and  comely  nature  in 
which  the  poem  had  its  birth.  The  best  criticism  on 
Titus  Andronicus  was  made  by  Robert  Burns,  when 
he  was  nine  years  old.  His  schoolmaster  was  reading 
the  play  aloud  in  his  father's  cottage,  and  when  he  came 
to  the  scene  where  Lavinia  enters  with  her  hands  cut 
off  and  her  tongue  cut  out,  little  Robert  fell  a-crying, 
and  threatened,  in  case  the  play  was  left  in  the  cottage, 
to  burn  it.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  what  Burns  de- 
spised and  detested  at  the  age  of  nine  could  Iiave  been 


60  SHAKESPEARE. 

written  by  Shakespeare  at  the  age  of  twenty-five. 
Taking,  then,  Venus  and  Adonis  as  the  point  of  de- 
parture, we  find  Sliakespeare  at  the  age  of  twenty-two 
endowed  with  all  the  faculties,  but  relatively  deficient  in 
the  passions,  of  the  poet.  The  poem  is  a  throng  of 
thoughts,  fancies,  and  imaginations,  somewhat  cramped 
in  the  utterance.  Coleridge  says  that  "  in  his  poems 
the  creative  power  and  the  intellectual  energy  wrestle 
as  in  a  war  embrace.  Each  in  its  excess  of  strength 
seems  to  threaten  the  extinction  of  the  other.  At 
length  in  the  drama  they  were  reconciled,  and  fought 
each  with  its  shield  before  the  breast  of  the  other." 
Fine  as  this  is,  it  would  perhaps  be  more  exact  to  say 
that  in  his  earlier  poems  his  intellect,  acting  in  some 
degree  apart  from  his  sensibility,  and  playing  with  its 
own  ingenuities  of  fancy  and  meditation,  condensed  its 
thoughts  in  crystals.  Afterwards,  when  his  whole  na- 
ture became  liquid,  he  gave  us  his  thoughts  in  a  state 
of  fusion,  and  his  intellect  flowed  in  streams  of  fire. 

Take,  for  example,  that  passage  in  the  poem  where 
Venus  represents  the  loveliness  of  Adonis  as  sending 
thrills  of.  passion  into  the  earth  on  which  he  treads,  and 
as  making  the  bashful  moon  hide  herself  from  the  sight 
of  his  bewildering  beauty  :  — 

"  But  if  thou  full,  0,  then  imagine  this! 

The  earth,  iu  love  with  thee,  thy  footing  trips, 


^     SHAKESPEARE.  61 

And  all  is  but  to  rob  thee  of  a  kiss. 

Rich  preys  make  true  men  thieves;  so  do  thy  lips 
Make  modest  Dian  cloudy  and  forlorn, 
Lest  she  should  steal  a  kiss  and  die  fors\vorn. 

"  Now  of  this  dark  night  I  perceive  the  reason : 
Cynthia  for  shame  obscures  her  silver  shrine, 
Till  forging  Nature  be  condemned  of  treason, 

For  stealing  moulds  from  heaven  that  were  divine, 
Wherein  she  framed  thee,  in  high  heaven's  despite, 
To  shame  the  sun  by  day  and  her  by  night." 

This  is  reflected  and  reflecting  passion,  or,  at  least, 
imagination  awakening  passion,  rather  than  passion 
penetrating  imagination. 

Now  mark,  by  contrast,  the  gush  of  the  heart  into 
■the  brain,  dissolving  thought,  imagination,  and  expres- 
sion, so  that  they  run  molten,  in  the  delirious  ecstasy 
of  Pericles  on  recovering  his  long-lost  child :  — 

"  0  Helicanus!  strike  me,  honour'd  sir, 
Give  me  a  gash,  put  me  to  present  pain, 
Lest  this  great  sea  of  joys,  rushing  upon  me, 
O'erbear  the  shores  of  my  mortality. 
And  drown  me  with  their  sweetness." 

If,  as  is  probable,  Venus  and  Adonis  was  written 
as  early  as  158G,  we  may  suppose  that  the  plays  which 
represent  the  immaturity  of  his  genius,  and  which  are 
strongly  marked  with  the  characteristics  of  that  poem, 
namely.  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  the  fir^t  draft 


62  SHAKESPEARE. 

of  Love's  Labor 's  Lost,  and  the  original  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  were  produced  before  the  year  1592.  Following 
these  came  King  Richard  III.,  King  Richard  II.,  A 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  King  John,  The  Merchant 
of  Venice,  and  King  Henry  IV.,  all  of  which  we  know 
were  written  before  1598,  when  Shakespeare  was  in 
his  thirty-fourth  year.  During  the  next  eight  years  he 
produced  King  Henry  V.,  The  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor, As  You  Like  it,  Hamlet,  Twelfth  Night,  Measure 
for  Measure,  Othello,  Macbeth,  and  King  Lear.  In 
this  list  are  the  four  great  tragedies  in  which  his  genius 
culminated.  Then  came  Troikis  and  Cressida,  Timon 
of  Athens,  Julius  CiBsar,  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Cj'm- 
beline.  King  Henry  VIIL,  The  Tempest,  The  Winter's 
Tale,  and  Coriolanus.  If  heed  be  paid  to  this  order 
of  the  plays,  it  will  be  seen  at  once  that  a  quotation 
from  Shakespeare  carries  with  it  a  very  different  degree 
of  authority,  according  as  it  refers  to  the  youth  or  the 
maturity  of  his  mind. 

Indeed,  when  we  reflect  that  between  the  production 
of  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  and  King  Lear 
there  is  only  a  space  of  fifteen  years,  we  must  admit 
that  the  history  of  the  human  intellect  presents  no  other 
example  of  such  marvellous  progress  ;  and  if  we  note 
the  giant  strides  by  which  it  was  made,  we  shall  find 
that  they  all  imply  a  progressive  widening  and  deepen- 


SHAKESPEARE.  63 

ing  of  soul,  a  positive  growth  of  tlie  nature  of  the  man, 
until  in  Lear  the  power  became  supreme  and  became 
amazing.  Mr.  Verplanck  considers  the  period  when  he 
produced  liis  four  great  tragedies  to  be  the  period  of  his 
intellectual  grandeur,  as  distinguished  from  an  earlier 
period  which  he  thinks  shows  the  perfection  of  his 
mei'ely  poetic  and  imaginative  power ;  but  the  fact 
would  seem  to  be  that  his  increasing  greatness  as  a  phi- 
losopher was  fully  matched  by  his  increasing  greatness 
as  a  poet,  and  that,  in  the  devouring  swiftness  of  his\/ 
onward  and  upward  movement,  imagination  kept  abreast 
of  reason.  His  imagination  was  never  more  vivid,  all- 
informing,  and  creative,  —  never  penetrated  with  more 
unerring  certainty  to  the  inmost  spiritual  essence  of 
whatever  it  touched,  —  never  forced  words  and  rhythm 
into  more  supple  instruments  of  thought  and  feeling,  — 
than  when  it  miracled  into  form  the  terror  and  pity  and 
beauty  of  Lear. 

Lideed,  the  coequal  growth  of  his  reason  and  imagi- 
nation v>'as  owing  to  the  wider  scope  and  increased 
energy  of  the  great  moving  forces  of  his  being.  It 
relates  primarily  to  the  heart  rather  than  the  head. 
It  is  the  immense  fiery  force  behind  his  mental  powers, 
kindling  them  into  white  heat,  and  urging  them  to  ef- 
forts almost  preternatural,  —  it  is  this  which  impels  the 
daring  thought  beyond  the  limits  of  positive  knowledge, 


64  SHAKESPEARE. 

and  prompts  the  starts  of  ecstasy  in  whose  unexpected 
radiance  nature  and  human  life  are  transfigured,  and  for 
an  instant  shine  with  celestial  light.  In  truth  he  is, 
relatively,  more  intellectual  in  his  early  than  in  his  later 
plays,  for  in  his  later  plays  his  intellect  is  thoroughly 
impassioned,  and  though  it  has  really  grown  in  strength 
and  massiveness,  it  is  so  fused  with  imagination  and 
emotion  as  to  be  less  independently  prominent. 

The  sources  of  individuality  lie  below  the  intellect; 
and  as  Shakespeare  went  deeper  into  the  soul  of  man,  he 

/more  and  more  represented  the  brain  as  the  organ  and 
instrument  of  fhe  heart,  as  the  channel  through  which 
sentiment,  passion,  and  character  found  an  intelligible 
outlet.  His  own  mind  was  singularly  objective  ;  that  is, 
he  saw  things  as  they  are  in  themselves.  The  minds  of 
his  prominent  characters  ai'e  all  subjective,  and  see 
things  as  they  are  modified  by  the  peculiarities  of  their 
individual  moods  and  emotions.  The  very  objectivity 
of  his  own  mind  enables  him  to  assume  the  subjective 
conditions  of  less-emancipated  natures.  Macbeth  peoples 
the  innocent  air  with  menacing  shapes,  projected  from 
his  own  fiend-haunted  imagination ;  but  the  same  air  is 
sweet  and  wholesome  to  the  poet  who  gave  being  to 
Macbeth.  The  meridian  of  Shakespeare's  power  was 
reached  when  he  created  Othello,  Macbeth,  and  Lear, 
»         — complex  personalities,  representing  the  conflict  and 


SHAKESPEARE.  65 

complication  of  the  migliticst  passions  in  colossal  forms 
of  human  character,  and  whose  understandings  and  im- 
aginations, whose  perceptions  of  nature  and  human  life, 
and  whose  weightiest  utterances  of  moral  wisdom,  are 
all  thoroughly  subjective  and  individualized.  The 
greatness  of  these  characters,  as  compared  with  his  ear- 
lier creations,  consists  in  the  greater  intensity  and  ampli- 
tude of  their  natures,  and  the  wider  variety  of  faculties 
and  passions  included  in  the  strict  unity  of  their  nature?. 
Richard  III.,  for  example,  is  one  of  his  earlier  charac- 
ters, and,  though  excellent  of  its  kind,  its  excellence  has 
been  approached  by  other  dramatists,  as,  for  instance, 
Massinger,  in  Sir  Giles  Overreach.  But  no  other 
dramatist  has  been  able  to  grasp  and  represent  a  char- 
acter similar  in  kind  to  Macbeth,  and  the  reason  is  tliat 
Richard  is  comparatively  a  simple  conception,  while 
Macbeth  is  a  complex  one.  There  is  unity  and  versa- 
tility in  Richard  ;  there  is  unity  and  variety  in  Macbelli- 
Richaixl  is  capable  of  being  developed  with  almost  logi- 
cal accuracy  ;  for,  though  there  is  versatility  in  the  play 
of  his  intellect,  there  is  little  A^ariety  in  the  motives 
which  direct  his  intellect.  His  wickedness  is  not  ex- 
hibited in  the  making.  He  is  so  completely  and  glee- 
fully a  villain  from  the  first,  that  he  is  not  restrained 
from  convenient  crime  by  any  scruples  or  relentings. 
The  vigor  of  his  will  is  due  to  his  poverty  of  feeling  and 

E 


66  SHAKESPEARE. 

conscience.  He  is  a,  brilliant  and  efficient  criminal  be- 
cause he  is  shorn  of  the  noblest  attributes  of  man.  Put,  . 
if  you  could,  Macbetli's  heart  and  imagination  into  him, 
and  his  will  would  be  smitten  with  impotence,  and 
his  wit  be  turned  to  wailing.  The  intellect  of  Macbeth 
is  richer  and  grander  than  Richard's,  yet  Richard  is 
relatively  a  more  intellectual  character  ;  for  the  intellect 
of  Macbeth  is  rooted  in  his  moral  natui'e,  and  is  second- 
ary in  our  thoughts  to  the  contending  motives  and 
emotions  it  obeys  and  reveals.  In  crime,  as  in  virtue, 
what  a  man  overcomes  should  enter  into  our  estimate 
of  the  power  exhibited  in  what  he  does. 

The  question  now  comes  up,  —  and  we  suppose  it 
must  be  met,  though  we  should  like  to  evade  it,  —  How, 
amid  the  individualities  that  Shakespeare  has  created, 
are  we  to  detect  the  individuality  of  Shakespeare  him- 
self ?  In  answer  it  may  be  said,  that,  if  we  survey  his 
dramas  in  the  mass,  we  find  three  degrees  of  unity  ;  — 
first,  the  unity  of  the  individual  characters ;  second,  the 
unity  of  the  separate  plays  in  which  they  appear  ;  and 
third,  the  unity  of  Shakespeare's  own  nature,  —  a  na- 
ture which,  as  it  developed,  deepened,  expanded,  and 
increased  in  might,  but  did  not  essentially  change,  and 
which  is  felt  as  a  potent  presence  tlu'oughoiit  his  works, 
binding  them  together  as  the  product  of  one  mind.  He 
did  not  literally  go  out  of  himself  to  inform  other  na- 


SHAKESPEARE.  67 

tures,  but  he  included  these  natures  in  himself;  and, 
though  he  does  not  infuse  his  individuality  into  his 
characters,  he  does  infuse  it  into  the  general  conceptions 
which  the  characters  illustrate.  His  opinions,  purposes, 
theory  of  life,  are  to  be  gathered,  not  from  what  his 
characters  say  and  do,  but  from  the  results  of  what  they 
say  and  do  ;  and  in  each  play  he  so  combines  and  dis- 
poses the  events  and  persons  that  the  cumulative  im- 
pression expresses  his  own  judgment,  indicates  his  own 
design,  and  conveys  his  own  feeling.  His  individu- 
ality is  so  vast,  so  purified  from  eccentricity,  and  we 
grasp  it  so  imperfectly,  that  we  are  apt  to  deny  it  alto- 
gether, and  conceive  his  miud_  as  impersonal.  In  view 
of  the  multiplicity  of  his  creations,  and  the  range  of 
thought,  emotion,  and  character  they  include,  it  is  a  com- 
mon hyperbole  of  criticism  to  designate  him  as  universal. 
But,  in  truth,  his  mind  was  restricted,  in  its  creative  ac- 
tion, like  other  minds,  within  the  limits  of  its  personal 
sympathies,  though  these  sympathies  in  him  were 
keener,  quicker,  and  more  genei'al  than  in  other  men  of 
genius.  He  was  a  great-hearted,  broad-brained  j^erson, 
but  still  a  person,  and  not  what  Coleridge  calls  him,  an 
"  omnipresent  creativeness."  Wl)atever  he  could  sym- 
pathize with  he  could  embody  and  vitally  repi-csent  ; 
but  his  sympathies,  though  wide,  were  far  from  being 
universal,  and,  when  he  was  indifferent  or  hostile,  the 


68  SHAKESPEARE. 

dramatist  was  pai'tially  suspended  in  the  satirist  and 
caricaturist,  and  oversight  took  the  place  of  insight. 
Indeed,  his  limitations  are  more  easily  indicated  than 
his  enlargements.  We  know  what  he  has  not  done 
more  surely  than  we  know  what  he  has  done  ;  for  if  we 
attempt  to  follow  his  genius  in  any  of  the  numei'ous 
lines  of  direction  along  which  it  sweeps  with  such  vic- 
torious ease,  we  soon  come  to  the  end  of  our  tether,  and 
are  confused  with  a  throng  of  thoughts  and  imagina- 
tions, which,  as  Emerson  exquisitely  says,  "  sweetly 
torment  us  with  invitations  to  their  own  inaccessible 
homes."  But  there  were  some  directions  which  his 
genius  did  not  take,  —  not  so  much  from  lack  of  mental 
power  as  from  lack  of  disposition  or  from  positive  an- 
tipathy.    Let  us  consider  some  of  these. 

And  first,  Shakespeare's  religious  instincts  and  senti- 
ments were  comparatively  weak,  for  they  were  not  crea- 
tive. He  has  exercised  his  genius  in  the  creation  of  no 
^character  in  which  religious  sentiment  or  religious  pas- 
sion is  dominant.  He  could  not,  of  course,  —  he,  the 
poet  of  feudalism,  —  overlook  religion  as  an  element  of 
the  social  organization  of  Europe,  but  he  did  not  seize 
Christian  ideas  in  their  essence,  or  look  at  the  human 
soul  in  its  dii-ect  relations  with  God.  And  just  think  of 
the  field  of  humanity  closed  to  him  !  For  sixteen  hun- 
dred years,  remarkable  men  and  women  had  appeared, 


SHAKESPEARE.  69 

representing  all  classes  of  religious  character,  from  the 
ecstasy  of  the  saint  to  the  gloom  of  the  fanatic  ;  yet  his 
intellectual  curiosity  was  not  enough  excited  to  explore 
and  reproduce  their  experience.  Do  you  say  tliftt  the 
subject  was  foreign  to  the  purpose  of  an  Elizabethan 
playwright  ?  The  answer  is,  that  Dekkar  and  Massin- 
ger  attempted  it,  for  a  popular  audience,  in  "  The  Virgin 
JMartyr  " ;  and  though  the  tragedy  of  "  The  Virgin  Mar- 
tyr "  is  a  huddled  mass  of  beauties  and  deformities,  its 
materials  of  incident  and  characters,  could  Shakespeare 
have  been  attracted  to  them,  might  have  been  organized 
into  as  great  a  drama  as  Othello.  Again,  Marlowe,  in 
his  play  of  "  Doctor  Faustus,"  has  imperfectly  treated  a 
subject  which  in  Shakespeare's  hands  would  have  been 
made  into  a  tragedy  sublimer  than  Lear,  could  he  have 
thrown  himself  into  it  with  equal  earnestness.  Mar- 
lowe, from  the  fact  that  he  was  a  brawling  atheist, 
had  evidently  at  some  time  directed  his  whole  heart  and 
imagination  to  the  consideration  of  religious  questions, 
and  had  resolutely  faced  facts  from  which  Shakespeare 
turned  away. 

Shakespeare,  also,  in  common  with  the  other  dram- 
atists of  the  time,  looked  at  the  Puritans  as  objects  of 
satire,  laughing  at  them  instead  of  gazing  into  them. 
They  were  doubtless  grotesque  enough  in  external  ap- 
pearance ;  but  the  poet  of  human  nature  should    have 


70  SHAKESPEAEE. 

penetrated  through  the  appearance  to  the  substance,  and 
recognized  in  them,  not  merely  the  possibility  of  Crom- 
well, but  of  the  ideal  of  character  which  Cromwell  but 
imperfectly  represented.  You  may  say  that  Shake- 
speare's nature  was  too  sunny  and  genial  to  admit  the 
Puritan.  It  was  not  too  sunny  or  genial  to  admit  Rich- 
ards, and  lagos,  and  Gonerils,  and  "  secret,  black,  and 
midniijht  hajfs." 

It  may  be  doubted  also  if  Shakespeare's  affinities  ex- 
tended to  those  numerous  classes  of  human  character 
that  stand  for  the  reforming  and  philanthropic  senti- 
ments of  humanity.  We  doubt  if  he  was  hopeful  for 
the  race.  He  was  too  profoundly  impressed  with  its 
disturbing  passions  to  have  faith  in  its  continuous  pro- 
gress. Though  immensely  greater  than  Bacon,  it  may 
be  questioned  if  he  could  thoroughly  have  appreciated 
Bacon's  intellectual  character.  He  could  have  deline- 
ated him  to  perfection  in  everything  but  in  that  peculiar 
philanthropy  of  the  mind,  that  spiritual  benignity,  that 
belief  in  man  and  confidence  in  his  future,  which  both 
atone  and  account  for  so  many  of  Bacon's  moral  defects. 
Tiiere  is  no  character  in  his  plays  that  covers  the  ele- 
ments of  such  a  man  as  Hildebrand  or  Luther,  or  either 
of  the  two  Williams  of  Orange,  or  Hampden,  or  How- 
ard, or  Clarkson,  or  scores  of  other  representative  men 
whom  history  celebrates.     Though  the  broadest  individ- 


SHAIvESPEARE.  71 

ual  nature  which  human  nature  has  produced,  human 
nature  is  immensely  broader  than  he. 

It  would  be  easy  to  quote  passages  from  Shake- 
speare's works  which  would  seem  to  indicate  that  his 
genius  was  not  limited  in  any  of  the  directions  which 
have  been  pointed  out ;  but  these  passages  are  thoughts 
and  observations,  not  men  and  women,  Hamlet's 
soliloquy,  and  Portia's  address  to  Shylock,  might  be  ad- 
duced as  proofs  that  he  compi'ehended  the  religious  ele- 
ment ;  but  then  who  would  take  Hamlet  or  Portia  as 
representative  of  the  religious  character  in  any  of  its 
numerous  historical  forms  ?  There  is  a  I'emark  in  one 
of  his  jilays  to  this  effect  :  — 

"  It  is  an  heretic  that  makes  the  fire, 
Not  she  which  bums  in  't." 

This  might  be  taken  as  a  beautiful  expression  of  Chris- 
tian toleration,  and  is  certainly  admirable  as  a  general 
thought ;  but  it  indicates  Shakespeare's  indifference  to 
religions  passions  in  indicating  his  superiority  to  them. 
It  would  have  been  a  much  greater  achievement  of 
genius  to  have  passed  into  the  mind  and  heart  of  the 
conscientious  burner  of  heretics,  seized  the  essence  of 
the  bigot's  character,  and  embodied  in  one  great  ideal 
individual  a  class  of  men  whom  we  now  both  execrate 
and  misconceive.  If  he  could  follow  the  dramatic  pro- 
cess of  his  genius  for  Sir  Toby  Welch,  why  could  he  not 
do  it  for  St.  Dominic  ? 


72  SHAKESPEARE. 

Indeed,  toleration,  in  the  sense  that  Shakespeare  has 
given  to  the  word,  is  not  expressed  in  maxims  directed 
against  intolerance,  but  in  the  exercise  of  charity  towards 
intolerant  men  ;  and  it  is  thus  necessary  to  indicate  the 
limitations  of  his  sympathy  with  his  race,  in  order  to  ap- 
preciate its  real  quality  and  extent.  His  unapproached 
greatness  consists,  not  in  including  human  nature,  but 
in  taking  the  point  of  view  of  those  large  classes  of  hu- 
man nature  he  did  include.  His  sympathetic  insight 
was  both  serious  and  humorous ;  and  he  thus  equally 
escaped  the  intolerance  of  taste  and  the  intolerance  of 
intelHgence.  "What  we  would  call  the  worst  criminals 
and  the  most  stupid  fools  were,  as  mirrored  in  his  mind, 
fairly  dealt  with ;  every  opportunity  was  afforded  them 
to  justify  their  right  to  exist ;  their  words,  thoughts,  and 
acts  were  viewed  in  relation  to  their  circumstances  and 
character,  so  that  he  made  them  inwardly  known,  as 
well  as  outwardly  perceived.  The  wonder  of  all  this 
would  be  increased,  if  we  supposed,  for  the  sake  of  illus- 
tration, that  the  persons  and  events  of  all  Shakespeare's 
plays  were  historical,  and  that,  instead  of  being  repre- 
sented by  Shakespeare,  they  were  criticised  by  Macau- 
lay.  The  result  would  be  that  the  impression  received 
from  the  historian  of  every  incident  and  every  person 
would  be  different,  and  would  be  wrong.  The  external 
facts  might  not  be  altered  ;  but  the  falsehood  would  pro- 


SHAKESPEARE.  73 

ceed  from  the  incapacity  or  indisposition  of  the  historian 
to  pierce  to  the  heart  of  the  facts  by  sympathy  and 
imagination.  There  would  be  abundant  information, 
abundant  eloquence,  abundant  invective  against  crime, 
abundant  scorn  of  stupidity  and  fully,  perhaps  much 
sagacious  reflection  and  judicial  scrutiny  of  evidence  ; 
but  the  inward  and  essential  truth  would  be  wanting. 
What  external  statement  of  the  acts  and  probable  mo- 
tives of  Macbeth  and  Othello  could  convey  the  idea  we 
have  of  them  from  being  witnesses  of  the  conflict  of 
their  thoughts  and  passions  ?  How  wicked  and  shallow 
and  feeble  and  foolish  would  Hamlet  appear,  if  repi'e- 
sented,  not  in  the  light  of  Shakespeare's  imagination, 
but  in  the  light  of  Macaulay's  epigrams  !  How  the  his- 
torian would  display  the  dazzling  fence  of  his  rhetoric 
on  the  indecision  of  the  prince,  his  brutality  to  Opheha, 
his  cowardice,  his  impotence  between  contending  mo- 
tives, and  the  chaos  of  blunders  and  crimes  in  which  he 
sinks  from  view  !  The  subject  would  be  even  a  better 
one  for  him  than  that  of  James  the  Second ;  yet  the 
very  supposition  of  such  a  mode  of  treatment  makes  us 
feel  the  pathos  of  the  real  Hamlet's  injunction  to  the 
friend  who  strives  to  be  his  companion  in  death  :  — 

"  Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhUc, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain, 
To  till  my  story." 
4 


74  SHAKESPEARE. 

If  the  historian  would  thus  deal  with  the  heroes, 
such  "  small  deer "  as  Bardolph  and  Master  Slender 
would  of  course  be  puiFed  out  of  existence  with  one  hiss 
of  lordly  contempt.  Yet  Macaulay  has  a  more  vivid 
historical  imagination,  more  jDower  of  placing  himself  in 
the  age  about  which  he  writes,  than  historians  like 
Hume  and  Hallam,  whose  judgments  of  men  are  sum- 
maries of  qualities,  and  imply  no  inwardness  of  vision, 
no  discerning  of  spii'its.  In  the  whole  class,  the  point 
of  view  is  the  historian's,  and  not  the  point  of  view  of 
the  persons  the  historian  describes.  Tlie  curse  which 
clings  to  celebrity  is,  that  it  commonly  enters  history 
only  to  be  puffed  or  lampooned. 

The  truth  is,  that  most  men,  the  intelligent  and  the 
virtuous  as  well  as  the  ignorant  and  the  vicious,  are  in- 
tolerant of  other  individualities.  They  are  uncharitable 
by  defect  of  sympathy  and  defect  of  insight.  Society, 
even  the  best,  is  apt  to  be  made  up  of  people  who  are 
engaged  in  the  agreeable  occupation  of  despising  each 
other ;  for  one  association  for  mutual  admiration  there 
are  tv/eiity  for  mutual  contempt ;  yet  while  conversation 
is  thus  mostly  made  up  of  strictures  ou  individuals, 
it  rarely  evinces  any  just  perception  of  individualities. 
James  is  indignant  or  jocose  at  the  absence  of  James 
in  John,  and  John  is  horror-stricken  at  the  impudence  of 
James  in  refusing  to  be  John.    Each  person  feels  himself 


SIIAKESPEAKE.  75 

to  be  misunderstood,  though  he  never  questions  his  power 
to  understand  his  neighbor.  Egotism,  vanity,  prejudice, 
pride  of  opinion,  conceit  of  excellence,  a  mean  delight  in 
recognizing  inferiority  in  others,  a  meaner  delight  in  re- 
fusing to  recognize  the  superiority  of  others,  all  the  hon- 
est and  all  the  base  forms  of  self-assertion,  cloud  and 
distort  the  vision  when  one  mind  directs  its  glance  at 
another.  For  one  person  who  is  mentally  conscientious 
there  are  thousands  who  are  moi'ally  honest.  The  re- 
sult is  a  vast  massacre  of  character,  which  would  move 
the  observer's  compassion  were  it  not  that  the  victims 
are  also  the  culprits,  and  that  pity  at  the  spectacle  of 
the  arrow  quivering  in  the  sufferer's  breast  is  checked 
by  the  sight  of  the  bow  bent  in  the  sufferer's  hands. 
This  depreciation  of  others  is  the  most  approved  method 
of  exalting  ourselves.  It  educates  us  in  self-esteem,  if 
not  in  knowledge.  The  savage  conceives  that  the 
power  of  the  enemy  he  kills  is  added  to  his  own. 
Shakespeare  more  justly  conceived  that  the  power  of 
the  human  being  with  whom  he  sympathized  was  added 
to  his  own. 

Tliis  toleration,  without  which  an  internal  knowledge 
of  other  natures  is  impossible,  Shakespeare  possessed 
beyond  any  other  man  recorded  in  literature  or  history. 
It  is  a  moral  as  well  'as  mental  trait,  and  belongs  to  the 
highest  class  of  virtues.     It  is  a  virtue  which,  if  gener- 


76  SHAKESPEARE. 

ally  exercised,  would  remove  mutual  hostility  by  en- 
lightening mutual  ignorance.  And  in  Shakespeare  we 
have,  for  once,  a  man  great  enough  to  be  modest  and 
charitable  ;  who  has  the  giant's  power,  but,  far  from 
using  it  like  a  giant,  trampling  on  weaker  creatures, 
prefers  to  feel  them  in  his  arms  rather  than  feel  them 
under  his  feet ;  and  whose  toleration  of  others  is  the 
exercise  of  humility,  veracity,  beneficence,  and  justice, 
as  well  as  the  exercise  of  reason,  imagination,  and  hu- 
mor. We  shall  never  appreciate  Shakespeare's  genius 
until  we  recognize  in  him  the  exercise  of  the  most 
difficult  virtues,  as  well  as  the  exei'cise  of  the  most 
wide-reaching  intelligence. 

It  is,  of  course,  not  so  wonderful  that  he  should  take 
the  point  of  view  of  characters  in  themselves  beautiful 
and  noble,  though  even  these  might  appear  very  differ- 
ent under  the  glance  of  a  less  soul-searching  eye.  For 
such  aspects  of  life,  however,  all  genius  has  a  natural 
affinity.  But  the  marvel  of  his  comprehensiveness  is 
his  mode  of  dealing  witli  the  vulgar,  the  vicious,  and 
the  low,  —  with  persons  who  are  commonly  spurned  as 
dolts  and  knaves.  His  serene  benevolence  did  not 
pause  at  what  are  called  "  deserving  objects  of  chanty," 
but  extended  to  the  undeserving,  who  are,  in  truth,  the 
proper  objects  of  charity.  If  we  compare  him,  in  this 
respect,  with  poets  like  Dante  and   Milton,  in   whom 


SHAKESPEARE.  77 

elevation  is  the  predominant  characteristic,  we  shall  find 
that  they  tolerate  humanity  only  in  its  exceptional  ex- 
amples of  beauty  and  might.  They  are  aristocrats  of 
intellect  and  conscience,  —  the  noblest  aristocracy,  but 
also  the  haughtiest  and  most  exclusive.  They  can  sym- 
pathize with  great  energies,  whether  celestial  or  diabolic, 
but  their  attitude  towards  the  feeble  and  the  low  is  apt 
to  be  that  of  indifference  or  contempt.  Milton  can  do 
justice  to  the  Devil,  though  not,  like  Shakespeare,  to 
"  poor  devils."  But  it  may  be  doubted  if  the  wise  and 
good  have  the  right  to  cut  the  Providential  bond  which 
connects  them  with  the  foolish  and  the  bad,  and  set  up 
an  aristocratic  humanity  of  their  own,  ten  times  more 
supercilious  than  the  aristocracy  of  blood.  Divorce  the 
loftiest  qualities  from  humility  and  geniality,  and  they 
quickly  contract  a  pharisaic  taint ;  and  if  there  is  any- 
thing which  makes  the  wretched  more  wretched,  it  is 
the  insolent  condescension  of  patronizing  benevolence, 
—=-  if  there  is  anything  which  makes  the  vicious  more 
vicious,  it  is  the  "  I-am-better-than-thou  "  expression  on 
the  face  of  conscious  virtue.  Now  Shakespeare  had 
none  of  this  pride  of  superiority,  either  in  its  noble  or 
ignoble  form.  Consider  that,  if  his  gigantic  powers 
had  been  directed  by  antipathies  instead  of  sympathies, 
he  would  have  left  few  classes  of  human  character  un- 
touched by  his  terrible  scorn.     Even  if  his  antipathies 


78  SHAKESPEARE. 

had  been  those  of  taste  and  morals,  he  would  have  done 
so  much  to  make  men  hate  and  misunderstand  each 
other,  —  so  much  to  destroy  the  very  sentiment  of  hu- 
manity, —  that  he  would  have  earned  the  distinction 
of  being  the  greatest  satirist  and  the  worst  man  that 
ever  lived.  But  instead,  how  humanely  he  clings  to  the 
most  unpromising  forms  of  human  nature,  insists  on 
their  right  to  speak  for  themselves  as  much  as  if  they 
were  passionate  Romeos  and  high-aspiring  Bucking- 
hams,  and  does  for  them  what  he  might  have  desired 
should  be  done  for  himself  had  he  been  Dogberry,  or 
Bottom,  or  Abhorson,  or  Bardolph,  or  any  of  the  rest ! 
The  low  characters,  the  clowns  and  vagabonds,  of  Ben 
Jonson's  plays,  excite  only  contempt  or  disgust.  Shake- 
speare takes  the  same  materials  as  Ben,  passes  them 
through  the  medium  of  his  imaginative  humor,  and 
changes  them  into  subjects  of  the  most  soul-enriching 
mirth.  Their  actual  prototypes  would  not  be  tolerated ; 
but  when  his  genius  shines  on  them,  they  "  lie  in  light " 
before  our  humorous  vision.  It  must  be  admitted  that 
in  his  explorations  of  the  lower  levels  of  human  nature 
he  sometimes  touches  the  mud  deposits  ;  still,  he  never 
hisses  or  jeers  at  the  poor  relations  through  Adam  he 
there  discovers,  but  magnanimously  gives  them  the  wink 
of  consanguinity. 

This  is  one  extreme  of  his  genius,  —  the  poetic  com- 


SHAKESrEARE.  79 

prehension  and  embodiment  of  the  low.  What  was  the 
other  extreme  ?  How  high  did  he  mount  in  the  ideal 
region,  and  what  class  of  his  characters  represents  his 
loftiest  flight  ?  It  is  commonly  asserted  that  his  super- 
natural beings,  —  his  ghosts,  specti'es,  witches,  fairies,  and 
the  like,  —  exhibiting  his  command  of  the  dark  side  and 
the  bright  side,  the  terror  and  the  grace,  of  the  super- 
natural world,  indicate  his  rarest  quality ;  for  in  these, 
it  is  said,  he  went  out  of  human  nature  itself,  and 
created  beings  that  never  existed.  "Wonderful  as  these 
are,  we  must  recollect  that  in  them  he  worked  on  a 
basis  of  popular  superstitions,  on  a  mythology  as  definite 
as  that  of  Greece  and  Home,  and  though  he  recreated 
instead  of  copying  his  materials,  though  he  Shakespear- 
ianized  them,  he  followed  the  same  process  of  his 
genius  in  delineating  Hecate  and  Titania  as  in  deline- 
ating Dame  Quickly  and  Anne  Page.  All  his  charac- 
ters, fi'om  the  rogue  Autolycus  to  the  heavenly  Cordelia, 
are  in  a  certain  sense  ideal ;  but  the  question  now  re- 
lates to  the  rarity  of  the  elements,  and  the  height  of  tlie 
mood,  and  not  merely  to  the  action  of  his  mind;  and 
we  think  that  the  characters  technically  called  super- 
natural which  appear  in  his  works  are  much  nearer  the 
earth  than  others  which,  though  they  lack  the  name, 
have  more  of  the  spiritual  quality  of  the  thing.  The 
highest  form  of  the  supernatural  is  to  be  found  in  the 
purest,  highest,  most  beautiful  souls. 


80  SHAKESPEAEE. 

Did  it  never  strike  you,  in  reading  The  Tempest,  that 
Ariel  is  not  so  supernatural  as  Miranda  ?  We  may  be 
sure  that  Ferdinand  so  thought,  in  that  rapture  of 
wonder  when  her  soul  first  shone  on  him  through  her 
innocent  eyes  ;  and  afterwards,  when  he  asks, 

"  I  do  beseech  you 
(Chiefly  that  I  might  set  it  in  ray  prayers) 
What  is  your  name  ?  " 

And  doubtless  there  was  a  more  marvellous  melody  in 
her  voice  than  in  the  mysterious  magical  music 

"  That  crept  by  him  upon  the  waters, 
Allaying  both  their  fury  and  his  passion 
With  its  sweet  air." 

Shakespeare,  indeed,  in  his  transcendently  beautiful 
embodiments  of  feminine  excellence,  the  most  exquisite 
creations  in  literature,  passed  into  a  region  of  sentiment 
and  thought,  of  ideals  and  of  ideas,  altogether  higher 
and  more  supernatural  than  that  region  in  which  he 
shaped  his  uelicate  Ariels  and  his  fairy  Titanias.  The 
question  has  been  raised  whether  sex  extends  to  soul. 
However  this  may  be  decided,  here  is  a  soul,  with  its 
recoi'ds  in  literature,  who  is  at  once  the  manliest  of  men, 
and  the  most  womanly  of  women ;  who  can  not  only 
recognize  the  feminine  element  in  existing  individuals, 
but  discern  the  idea,  the  pattei'n,  the  radiant  genius,  of 


SHAKESPEARE  81 

womanhood  itself,  as  it  hovers,  unseen  by  other  eyes, 
over  the  living  representatives  of  the  sex.  Literature 
boasts  many  eminent  female  poets  and  novelists ;  but 
not  one  has  ever  approached  Shakespeare  in  the  purity, 
the  sweetness,  the  refinement,  the  elevation,  of  his  per- 
ceptions of  feminine  character,  —  much  less  approached 
him  in  the  power  of  embodying  the^e  perceptions  in  per- 
sons. These  characters  are  so  thoroughly  domesticated 
on  the  earth,  that  we  are  tempted  to  forget  the  heaven 
of  invention  from  which  he  brought  them.  The  most 
beautiful  of  spirits,  they  are  the  most  tender  of  daugh- 
ters, lovers,  and  wives.  They  are  "  airy  shapes,"  but 
they  "  syllable  men's  names."  Rosalind,  Juliet,  Ophe- 
lia, Viola,  Perdita,  Miranda,  Desdemona,  Hermioue, 
Portia,  Isabella,  Imogen,  Cordelia,  —  if  their  names  do 
not  call  up  their  natures,  the  most  elaborate  analysis 
of  criticism  will  be  of  no  avail.  Do  you  say  that  these 
women  are  slightly  idealized  portraits  of  actual  women  ? 
Was  Cordelia,  for  example,  simply  a  good,  affectionate 
daughter  of  a  foolish  old  king  ?  To  Shakespeare  him- 
self she  evidently  "  partook  of  divineness  "  ;  and  he  hints 
of  the  still  ecstasy  of  contemplation  in  which  her  nature 
first  rose  upon  his  imagination,  when,  speaking  through 
the  lips  of  a  witness  of  her  tears,  he  hallows  them  as 

they  fall:  — 

"  She  shook 

The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes." 

4*  F 


82  SHAKESPEARE. 

And  these  Shakespearian  women,  though  all  radia- 
tions from  one  great  ideal  of  womanhood,  are  at  the  same 
time  intensely  individualized.  Each  has  a  separate  soul, 
and  the  processes  of  intellect  as  well  as  emotion  are 
different  in  each.  Each,  for  example,  is  endowed  with 
the  faculty,  and  is  steeped  in  the  atmosphere,  of  imagi- 
nation ;  but  who  could  mistake  the  imagination  of 
Ophelia  for  the  imagination  of  Imogen  ?  —  the  loitering, 
lingering  movement  of  the  one,  softly  consecrating 
whatever  it  touches,  for  the  irradiating,  smiting  efficiency, 
the  flash  and  the  bolt,  of  the  other  ?  Imogen  is  perhaps 
the  most  completely  expressed  of  Shakespeare's  women  ; 
for  in  her  every  faculty  and  affection  is  fused  with 
imagination,  and  the  most  exquisite  tenderness  is  com- 
bined with  vigor  and  velocity  of  nature.  Her  mind 
darts  in  an  instant  to  the  ultimate  of  everything.  After 
she  has  parted  with  her  husband,  she  does  not  merely 
say  that  she  will  pray  for  him.  Her  affection  is  winged, 
and  in  a  moment  she  is  enskied.  She  does  not  look  up, 
she  goes  up :  she  would  have  charged  him,  she  says, 

"  At  the  sixth  hour  of  morn,  at  noon,  at  midnight 
T'  encounter  me  with  orisons,  for  then 
/  am  in  heaven  for  him." 

When  she  hears  of  her  husband's  inconstancy,  the  possi- 
ble object  of  his  sensual  whim  is  at  once  consumed  in 
the  fire  that  leaps  from  her  impassioned  lips  :  — 


SHAKESPEARE.  83 

"  Some  jay  of  Italy, 
Whose  mother  is  her  painting,  bath  betrayed  him." 

Mr.  Collier,  ludicrously  misconceiving  the  instinctive  ac- 
tion of  Imogen's  mind,  thinks  the  true  reading  is,  "  who 
smothers  her  with  painting."  Now  Imogen's  wrath 
first  reduces  the  light  woman  to  the  most  contemptible 
of  birds  and  the  most  infamous  of  symbols,  the  jay,  and 
then,  not  wilUng  to  leave  her  any  substance  at  all,  anni- 
hilates her  very  being  with  the  swift  thought  that  the 
[laint  on  her  cheeks  is  her  mother,  —  that  she  is  nothing 
but  the  mere  creation  of  painting,  a  phantom  boi'n  of  a 
color,  without  real  body  or  soul.  It  would  be  easy  to  show 
that  the  mental  processes  of  all  Shakespeare's  women 
are  as  individual  as  their  dispositions. 

And  now  think  of  the  amplitude  of  this  man's  soul  ! 
Within  the  immense  space  which  stretches  between  Dog- 
berry or  Launcelot  Gobbo  and  Imogen  or  Cordelia, 
lies  the  Shakespearian  world.  No  other  man  ever  ex- 
hibited such  philosophic  comprehensiveness ;  but  philo- 
sophic comprehensiveness  is  often  displayed  apart  from 
creative  comprehensiveness,  and  along  the  whole  vast 
line  of  facts,  laws,  analogies,  and  relations  over  which 
Shakespeare's  intellect  extended,  his  perceptions  were 
vital,  his  insight  was  creative,  his  thoughts  flowed  in 
forms.  And  now,  was  he  proud  of  his  transcendent  supe- 
riorities ?     Did  he  think  that  he  had  exhausted  all  that 


84  SHAKESPEARE. 

can  appear  before  the  sight  of  the  eye  and  the  sight  of 
the  soul  ?  No.  The  immeasurable  opulence  of  the  undis- 
covei'cd  and  undiscerned  regions  of  existence  was  never 
felt  with  more  reverent  humility  than  by  this  discoverer, 
who  had  seen  in  rapturous  visions  so  many  new  worlds 
ojien  on  his  view.  In  the  play  which  perhaps  best  ex- 
hibits the  ecstatic  action  of  his  mind,  and  which  is  alive 
in  every  part  with  that  fiery  sense  of  unlimited  power 
which  the  mood  of  ecstasy  gives,  —  in  the  play  of  An- 
tony and  Cleopatra,  —  he  has  put  into  the  mouth  of  the 
Soothsayer  what  seems  to  have  been  his  own  modest 
judgment  of  the  extent  of  his  glance  into  the  uni- 
verse of  matter  and  mind  :  — 

"  In  nature's  infinite  book  of  secrecy 
A  little  I  can  read !  " 


BEN    JONSON. 

A  UTIIORS  are  apt  to  be  popularly  considered  as 
■"^-^  physically  a  feeble  folk,  —  as  timid,  nervous,  dys- 
peptic rhymers  or  prosers,  unfitted  to  grapple  with  the 
rough  realities  of  life.  We  shall  endeavor  here  to  pre- 
sent the  image  of  one  calculated  to  reverse  this  impres- 
sion, —  the  image  of  a  stalwart  man  of  letters,  who 
lived  two  centuries  and  a  half  ago,  in  the  greatest  age 
of  English  literature,  who  undeniably  had  brawny 
fists  as  well  as  forgetive  faculties,  who  could  handle 
a  club  as  readily  as  a  pen,  hit  his  mark  with  a 
bullet  as  surely  as  with  a  word,  and  —  a  sort  of  cross  be- 
tween the  bully  and  the  bard  —  could  shoulder  his  way 
through  a  crowd  of  prize-fighters  to  take  his  seat  among 
the  tuneful  company  of  immortal  poets.  This  man, 
Ben- Jonson,  commonly  stands  next  to  Shakespeare  in  a 
consideration  of  the  dramatic  literature  of  the  age  of 
Elizabeth;  and  certainly,  if  the  "  thousand-souled" 
Shakespeare  may  be  said  to  represent  mankind,  Ben  as 
unmistakably  stands  for  English-kind.  He  is  '•  Saxon  " 
England  in  epitome,  —  John  Bull  passing  from  a  name 
into  a  man,  —  a  proud,  strong,  tough,  solid,  domineer- 


86  BEN   JONSON. 

ing  individual,  whose  intellect  and  personality  cannot  be 
severed,  even  in  thought,  from  his  body  and  personal 
appearance.  Ben's  mind,  indeed,  was  rooted  in  Ben's 
character  ;  and  his  character  took  symbolic  form  in  his 
physical  frame.  He  seemed  built  up,  mentally  as  well 
as  bodily,  out  of  beef  and  sack,  mutton  and  Canary  ;  or, 
to  say  the  least,  was  a  joint  product  of  the  English  mind 
and  the  English  larder,  of  the  fat  as  well  as  the  thought  of 
the  land,  of  the  soil  as  well  as  the  soul  of  England.  The 
moment  we  attempt  to  estimate  his  eminence  as  a  dram- 
atist, he  disturbs  the  equanimity  of  our  judgment  by  tum- 
bling head-foremost  into  the  imagination  as  a  big,  bluff, 
burly,  and  quarrelsome  man,  with  "  a  mountain  belly  and 
a  rocky  face."  He  is  a  very  pleasant  boon  companion 
as  long  as  we  make  our  idea  of  his  importance  agree 
with  his  own ;  but  the  instant  we  attempt  to  dissect  his 
intellectual  pretensions,  the  living  animal  becomes  a 
dangerous  subject,  —  his  countenance  flames,  his  great 
bands  double  up,  his  thick  lips  begin  to  twitch  with  im- 
pending invective,  and,  while  the  critic's  impression  of 
him  is  thus  all  the  more  vivid,  he  is  checked  in  its  ex- 
pression by  a  very  natural  fear  of  the  consequences. 
There  is  no  safety  but  in  taking  this  rowdy  leviathan  of 
letters  at  his  own  valuation  ;  and  the  relation  of  critics 
towards  him  is  as  perilous  as  that  of  the  jurymen  to- 
wards the  Irish  advocate,  who  had  an  unpleasant  habit 


BEN  JOXSON.  87 

of  sending  tbem  the  challenge  of  the  duellist  whenever 
they  brought  in  a  verdict  against  any  of  his  clients. 
There  is,  in  fact,  such  a  vast  animal  force  in  old  Ben's 
self-assertion,  that  he  bullies  posterity  as  he  bullied  his 
contemporai'ies ;  and,  while  we  admit  his  claim  to  rank 
next  to  Shakespeare  among  the  dramatists  of  his  age, 
we  beg  our  readers  to  understand  that  we  do  it  under 
intimidation. 

The  qualities  of  this  bold,  racy,  and  brawny  egotist 
can  be  best  conveyed  in  a  biographical  form.  He  was 
born  in  1574,  the  grandson  of  a  gentleman  who,  for  his 
religion,  lost  his  estate,  and  for  a  time  his  liberty,  in 
Queen  Mary's  reign,  and  the  son  of  a  clergyman  in  hum- 
ble circumstances,  who  died  about  a  month  before  his 
"  rare  "  offspring  was  born.  His  mother,  shortly  after 
the  death  of  her  husband,  married  a  master-bricklayer. 
Ben,  who  as  a  boy  doubtless  exhibited  brightness  of  in- 
tellect and  audacity  of  spirit,  seems  to  have  attracted  the 
attention  of  Camden,  who  placed  him  in  Westminster 
School,  of  which  he  was  master.  Ben  there  displaj'ed 
so  warm  a  love  of  learning,  and  so  much  capacity  in 
rapidly  acquiring  it,  that  at  the  age  of  sixteen  he  is 
said  to  have  been  removed  to  the  University  of  Cam- 
bridge, though  he  stated  to  Drummond,  long  after- 
wards, that  he  was  "  master  of  arts  in  both  the  Uni- 
versities, by  their  favor,  not  his  studie."     His  ambition 


88  BEN  JONSON. 

at  this  time,  if  we  may  believe  some  of  his  biographers, 
was  to  be  a  clergyman  ;  and  had  it  been  gratified,  he 
would  probably  have  blustered  his  way  to  a  bishopric, 
and  proved  himself  one  of  the  most  arrogant,  learned, 
and  pugnacious  disputants  of  the  English  Church  Mili- 
tant, —  perhaps  have  furnished  the  type  of  that  pecu- 
liar religionist,  compounded  of  bully,  pedant,  and  bigot, 
whom  Warburton  was  afterwards,  from  the  lack  of 
models,  compelled  to  originate.  But  after  residing  a  few 
months  at  the  University,  Ben,  deserted  by  his  friends 
and  destitute  of  money,  found  it  impossible  to  carry  out 
his  design  ;  and  he  returned  disappointed  to  his  mother's 
house.  As  she  could  not  support  him  in  idleness,  the 
stout-hearted  student  adopted  the  most  obvious  means 
of  earning  his  daily  bread,  and  for  a  short  time  followed 
the  occupation  of  his  father-in-law,  going  to  the  work  of 
bricklaying,  according  to  the  tradition,  with  a  trowel  in 
one  hand,  but  with  a  Horace  in  the  other.  His  enemies 
among  the  dramatists  did  not  forget  this  when  he  be- 
came famous,  but  meanly  sneered  at  him  as  "  the 
lime-and-mortar  poet."  When  we  reflect  that  in  the 
aristocratic  age  of  good  Queen  Bess,  play-writing,  even 
the  writing  of  Hamlets  and  Alchymists,  was,  if  we  may 
trust  Dr.  Farmei",  hardly  considered  "  a  creditable  em- 
ploy," we  may  form  some  judgment  of  the  position  of 
the  working  classes,  when  a  mechanic  was  thus  deemed 


BEN  JOXSON.  89 

to  have  no  rights  which  a  playwright  "  was  bound  to 
respect." 

We  have  no  means  of  deciding  whether  or  not  Ben 
was  foolish  enough  to  look  upon  his  trade  as  degrading ; 
that  it  was  distasteful  we  know  from  the  fact  that  he 
soon  exchanged  the  trowel  for  the  sword  ;  and  we  hear 
no  more  of  his  dealing  with  bricks,  if  we  may  except 
his  questionable  habit  of  sometimes  carrying  too  many 
of  them  in  his  hat.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  ran 
away  to  the  Continent,  and  enlisted  as  a  volunteer  in 
the  English  army  in  Flanders,  fully  intending,  doubt- 
less, as  fate  seemed  against  his  being  a  Homer  or  an 
Aristotle,  to  try  if  fortune  would  not  make  him  an 
Alexander  or  a  Hannibal.  As  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
however,  his  abundant  vitality  had  little  scope  in  mar- 
tial exercise.  He  does  not  appear  to  have  been  in  any 
general  engagement,  though  he  signalized  his  personal 
prowess  in  a  manner  which  he  was  determined  should 
not  be  forgotten  through  any  diffidence  of  his  own. 
Boastful  as  he  was  brave,  he  was  never  weary  of  brag- 
ging how  he  had  encountered  one  of  the  enemy,  fought 
with  hira  in  presence  of  both  armies,  killed  him,  and  tri- 
umphantly "  taken  opima  spolia  from  him." 

After  serving  one  campaign,  our  Ajax-Thersites  re- 
turned, at  the  age  of  nineteen,  to  England,  bringing  with 
him,  according  to  GifFord,  "  the  reputation  of  a  brave 


90  BEN  JONSON. 

man,  a  smattering  of  Dutch,  and  an  empty  purse."  To 
these  efficiencies  and  deficiencies  he  probably  added 
the  infirmity  of  drinking;  for,  as  "our  army  in 
Flanders  "  ever  drank  terribly  as  well  as  "  swore 
terribly,"  it  may  be  supposed  that  Beu  there  laid, 
deep  and  wide,  the  foundation  of  his  bacchanalian 
habits.  Arrived  in  London,  and  thrown  on  his  own 
resources  for  support,  he  turned  naturally  to  the  stage, 
and  became  an  actor  in  a  minor  playhouse,  called 
the  Green  Curtain.  Though  he  was  through  life 
a  good  reader,  and  though  at  this  time  he  was  not 
afilicted  with  the  scurvy,  which  eventually  so  punched 
his  face  as  to  make  one  of  his  satirists  compare  it,  with 
Avitty  malice,  to  the  cover  of  a  warming-pan,  he  still 
never  rose  to  any  eminence  as  an  actor.  He  had  not 
been  long  at  the  Green  Curtain  when  a  quarrel  with 
one  of  his  fellow-performers  led  to  a  duel,  in  which  Jon- 
son  killed  his  antagonist,  was  arrested  on  a  charge  of 
murder,  and,  in  his  own  phrase,  was  brought  "  almost  at 
the  gallowes,"  —  an  unpleasant  proximity,  which  he 
hastened  to  increase  by  relieving  the  weariness  of  im- 
prisonment in  discussions  on  religion  with  a  Popish 
priest,  also  a  prisoner,  and  by  becoming  a  convert  to 
Romanism.  As  the  zealous  professors  of  the  old  faith 
had  passed,  in  Elizabeth's  time,  from  persecutors  into 
martyrs,  Ben,  the  descendant  of  one   of  Queeu  Mary's 


BEN  JOXSON.  91 

victims,  evinced  more  than  his  usual  worldly  prudence 
in  seizing  this  occasion  to  join  their  company,  as  he 
could  reasonably  hope  that,  if  he  escaped  hanging  on 
the  charge  of  homicide,  he  still  might  contrive  to  be 
beheaded  and  disembowelled  on  a  charge  of  treason. 
In  regard,  however,  to  the  original  cause  of  his  impris- 
onment, it  would  seem  that,  on  investigation,  it  was 
found  the  duel  had  been  forced  upon  him,  that  his  an- 
tagonist had  taken  the  precaution  of  bringing  into  the 
field  a  sword  ten  inches  longer  than  his  own,  and  thus, 
far  from  expecting  to  be  the  victim  of  murder,  had  not 
unsagaciously  counted  on  committing  it.  Jonson  was 
released  ;  but,  apparently  vexed  at  this  pi'opitious  turn 
of  his  fortunes,  instead  of  casting  about  for  some  means 
of  subsistence,  he  almost  immediately  married  a  woman 
as  poor  as  himself,  —  a  wife  whom  he  afterwards  curtly 
described  as  "  a  shi-ew,  yet  honest."  A  shrew,  indeed  ! 
As  if  Mrs.  Jonson  must  not  often  have  had  just  occasion 
to  use  her  tongue  tartly  !  —  as  if  her  redoubtable  Ben 
did  not  often  need  its  acrid  admonitions  !  They  seem 
to  have  lived  together  until  1G13,  when  they  separated. 
Absolute  necessity  drove  Jonson  again  to  the  stage, 
probably  both  as  actor  and  writer.  He  began  his  dra- 
matic career,  as  Shakespeare  had  begun  his,  by  doing 
job-work  for  the  managers,  —  that  is,  by  altering,  I'ecast- 
ing,  and   making   additions    to,  old  plays.     At  last,  in 


92  BEN  JONSON. 

159G,  in  his  twenty-second  year,  he  placed  himself  at  a 
bound  among  the  famous  dramatists  of  the  time,  by  the 
production,  at  the  Rose  Theatre,  of  his  comedy  of  Ev- 
ery Man  in  his  Humor.  Two  years  afterwards,  having 
in  the  mean  time  been  altered  and  improved,  it  was, 
through  the  influence  of  Shakespeare,  accepted  by  the 
players  of  the  Blackfriars  Theatre,  Shakespeare  him- 
self acting  the  characterless  part  of  the  Elder  Knowell. 
Among  the  writers  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  —  an  age 
in  which,  for  a  wonder,  there  seemed  to  be  a  glut  of 
genius,  —  Ben  is  prominent  more  for  racy  ox'iginality  of 
personal  character,  weight  of  understanding,  and  quick- 
ness of  fancy,  than  for  creativeness  of  imagination. 
His  first  play.  Every  Man  in  his  Humor,  indicates,  to  a 
great  extent,  the  quality  and  the  kind  of  power  with 
which  he  was  endowed.  His  prominent  characteristic 
was  will,  —  will  carried  to  self-will,  and  sometimes  to 
self-exaggeration  almost  furious.  His  understanding 
was  solid,  strong,  penetrating,  even  broad,  and  it  was 
well  furnished  with  matter  derived  both  from  experience 
and  books ;  but,  dominated  by  a  personality  so  fretful 
and  fierce,  it  was  impelled  to  look  at  men  and  things, 
not  in  their  relations  to  each  other,  but  in  their  relations 
to  Ben.  Pie  had  reached  that  ideal  of  stormy  conceit 
in  which,  according  to  Emerson,  the  egotist  declares, 
"  Difference   from   me   is   the   measure   of  absurdity." 


BEN  JOXSON.  93 

Even  the  imaginary  characters  he  delineated  as  a  dram- 
atist were  all  bound,  as  by  tough  cords,  to  the  will  that 
gave  them  being,  lacked  that  joyous  freedom  and  care- 
less grace  of  movement  which  rightfully  belonged  to 
them  as  denizens  of  an  ideal  world,  and  had  to  obey 
their  master  Ben,  as  puppets  obey  the  showman.  His 
power  of  external  observation  was  pitilessly  keen  and 
searching,  and  it  was  accompanied  by  a  rich,  though 
somewhat  coarse  and  insolent  vein  of  humor;  but  his 
egotism  commonly  directed  his  observation  to  what  was 
below,  rather  than  above  himself,  and  gave  to  his  humor 
a  scornful,  rather  than  a  genial  tone.  He  huffs  even  in 
his  hilarity ;  his  fun  is  never  infectious  ;  and  his  very 
laughter  is  an  assertion  of  superior  w^isdora.  He  has 
none  of  that  humanizing  humor,  which,  in  Shakespeai'e, 
makes  us  like  the  vagabonds  we  laugh  at,  and  which 
insures  for  Dogberry  and  Nick  Bottom,  Autolychus  and 
Falstaff,  warmer  friends  among  readers  than  many  great 
historic  dignities  of  the  state  and  the  camp  can  command. 
In  regard  to  the  materials  of  tlie  dramatist,  Jonson, 
in  his  vagrant  career,  had  seen  human  nature  under 
many  aspects;  but  he  had  surveyed  it  neither  with  the 
eye  of  reason  nor  the  eye  of  imagination.  His  mind 
fastened  on  the  hard  actualities  of  observation,  without 
passing  to  what  they  implied  or  suggested.  Deficient, 
thus,  in  philosophic  insight  and  poetic  insight,  his  shrewd, 


94  BEN  JONSON. 

contemptuous  glance  rarely  penetrated  beneath  the  man- 
ners and  eccentricities  of  men.  His  attention  was 
arrested,  not  by  character,  but  by  prominent  peculiarities 
of  character,  - —  peculiarities  which  almost  transformed 
character  into  caricature.  To  use  his  own  phrase,  he 
delineated  '•  humors  "  rather  than  persons,  that  is,  indi- 
viduals under  the  influence  of  some  dominant  affectation, 
or  whim,  or  conceit,  or  passion,  that  drew  into  itself, 
colored,  and  mastered  the  whole  nature,  —  "  an  acorn," 
as  Sir  Thomas  Browne  phrases  it,  "in  their  young 
brows,  which  grew  to  an  oak  in  their  old  heads."  He 
thus  inverts  the  true  process  of  characterization.  In- 
stead of  seeing  the  trait  as  an  offshoot  of  the  individual, 
he  individualizes  the  trait.  Every  raau  is  in  his  humor, 
instead  of  every  humor  being  in  its  man.  In  order  that 
there  should  be  no  misconception  of  his  purpose,  he 
named  his  chief  characters  after  their  predominant 
qualities,  as  Morose,  Surly,  Sir  Amorous  La  Fool,  Sir 
Politic  "Would  Be,  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  and  the  like  ; 
and,  apprehensive  even  then  that  his  whole  precious 
meaning  would  not  be  taken  in,  he  appended  to  his 
dramatis  personoi  further  explanations  of  their  respective 
natures. 

This  distrust  of  the  power  of  language  to  lodge  a 
notion  in  another  brain  is  especially  English  ;  but  Ben, 
of  all  writers,  seems  to  have  been  most  impressed  with 


BEN  JONSON.  95 

the  necessity  of  pounding  an  idea  into  the  perceptions 
of  his  countrymen.  His  mode  resembles  the  attempt 
of  that  honest  Briton  wlio  thus  delivered  his  judgment 
on  the  French  nation :  "  I  hate  a  Frenchman,  sir. 
Every  Frenchman  is  either  a  puppy  or  a  rascal,  sir." 
And  then,  fearful  that  he  had  not  been  sufficiently 
explicit,  he  added,  "  Do  you  take  my  idea  ?  " 

With  all  abatements,  however,  the  comedy  of  Every 
Man  in  his  Humor  is  a  remarkable  effort,  considered  as 
the  production  of  a  young  man  of  twenty-two.  The 
two  most  striking  characters  are  Kitely  and  Captain 
Bobadil.  Give  Jonson,  indeed,  a  peculiarity  to  start 
with,  and  he  worked  it  out  with  logical  exactness.  So 
intense  was  his  conception  of  it,  that  he  clothed  it  in 
flesh  and  blood,  gave  it  a  substantial  existence,  and 
sometimes  succeeded  in  forcing  it  into  literature  as  a 
permanent  character. 

Bobadil,  especially,  is  one  of  Ben's  masterpieces. 
He  is  the  most  colossal  coward  and  braggart  of  the 
comic  stage.  He  can  swear  by  nothing  less  terrible 
than  "  by  tlie  body  of  Cajsar,"  or  "  by  the  foot  of  Pha- 
raoh," when  his  oath  is  not  something  more  terrific  still, 
namt'l y,  "  by  my  valor  "  !  Every  school-boy  knows  the 
celebrated  passage  in  which  the  boasting  Captain  oflJers  to 
settle  the  affairs  of  Europe  by  associating  with  himself 
twenty  other  Bobadils,  as  "  cunning  i'  the  fence  "  as  him- 


96  BEN  JONSON. 

self,  and  challenging  an  army  of  forty  thousand  men, 
twenty  at  a  time,  and  killing  the  whole  in  a  certain 
number  of  days.  Leaving  out  the  cowardice,  we  may 
say  there  was  something  of  Bobadil  in  Jonson  him- 
self; and  it  may  be  shrewdly  suspected  that  his  con- 
ceit of  destroying  an  army  in  this  fashion  came  into  his 
head  in  the  exultation  of  feeling  which  followed  his  own 
successful  exploit,  in  the  presence  of  both  armies,  when 
he  was  a  soldier  in  Flanders.  Old  John  Dennis  de- 
scribed genius  "  as  a  furious  joy  and  pride  of  soul  at  the 
conception  of  an  extraordinaiy  hint."  Ben  had  this 
"  furious  joy  and  pride,"  not  only  in  the  conception  of 
extraordinary  hints,  but  in  the  doing  of  extraordinary 
things. 

Jonson  followed  up  his  success  by  producing  the 
plays  of  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humor  and  Cynthia's 
Revels,  —  dramatic  satires  on  the  manners,  follies,  affec- 
tations, and  vices,  of  the  city  and  the  court.  One  good 
result  of  Jonson's  egotism  was,  that  it  made  him  afraid 
of  nothing.  He  openly  appeared  among  the  dramatists 
of  his  day  as  a  reformer,  and,  poor  as  he  was,  refused 
to  pander  to  popular  tastes,  whether  those  tastes  took 
the  direction  of  ribaldry,  or  blasphemy,  or  bombast.  He 
had  courage,  morality,  earnestness  ;  but  then  his  cour- 
age was  so  blustering,  his  morality  so  irascible,  and  his 
devotion  to  his  own  ideas  of  art  so  exclusive,   that  he 


BEN  JONSON.  97 

was  constantly  defying  and  insulting  the  persons  he  pro- 
posed to  teach.  Other  dramatists  said  to  the  audience, 
"  Please  to  applaud  this  "  ;  but  Ben  said,  "  Now,  you 
fools,  we  shall  see  if  you  have  sense  enough  to  applaud 
this  !  "  The  stage,  to  be  sure,  was  to  be  exalted  and 
improved,  but  it  was  to  be  done  by  his  own  works,  and 
the  glory  of  literature  was  to  be  associated  with  the 
glory  of  Master  Benjamin.  This  conceit,  by  making 
him  insensible  to  Shakespeare's  influence,  made  him, 
next  to  Shakespeare,  perhaps  the  most  original  dram- 
atist of  the  time.  He  differed  from  his  brother  dram- 
atists not  in  degree,  but  in  kind.  He  felt  it  was  not  for 
him  to  imitate,  but  to  produce  models  for  imitation,  —  not 
for  him  to  catch  the  spirit  of  the  age,  but  to  originate  a 
better.  In  short,  he  felt  and  taught  belief  in  Ben ;  and, 
high  as  posterity  rates  the  literature  of  the  age  of  Eliza- 
beth, it  would  be  supposed  from  his  prologues  and  epi- 
logues that  he  conceived  his  fat  body  to  have  fallen  on 
evil  days. 

In  every  Man  out  of  his  Humor  and  Cynthia's  Revels, 
he  is  in  a  raging  passion  throughout.  His  verse  groans 
with  the  weight  of  his  wrath.     "  My  soul,"  he  exclaims, 

"  Was  never  ground  into  such  oily  colors 
To  flatter  vice  and  daub  iniquity. 
But  with  an  arm^d  and  resolvdd  hand 
I  '11  strip  the  ragged  follies  of  the  time 
Naked  as  at  their  birth, 


98  BEN  JONSON. 

and  with  a  whip  of  steel 
Print  wounding  lashes  on  their  iron  ribs." 

But  though  he  exhausts  the  whole  rhetoric  of  railing,  in- 
vective, contempt,  and  scorn,  we  yet  find  it  difficult  to  feel 
any  of  the  indignation  he  labors  to  excite.  Admiration, 
however,  cannot  be  refused  to  Jonson's  prose  style  in 
these  as  in  his  other  plays.  It  is  terse,  sharp,  swift, 
biting,  —  every  word  a  die  that  stamps  a  definite 
image.  Ooeasionally  the  author's  veins,  to  use  his  own 
apt  expression,  seem  to  "  run  quicksilver,"  and  "  every 
phrase  comes  fortli  steeped  in  the  very  brine  of  conceit, 
and  sparkles  like  salt  in  fire."  Yet,  though  we  have 
scenes  in  which  there  is  brightness  in  every  sentence, 
the  result  of  the  whole  is  something  like  dulness,  as 
the  object  of  the  whole  is  to  exalt  himself  and  de- 
press others.  But  in  these  plays,  in  strange  contrast 
with  their  general  character,  we  have  a  few  specimens 
of  that  sweetness  of  sentiment,  refinement  of  fancy,  and 
indefinite  beauty  of  imagination,  which,  occupying  some 
secluded  corner  of  his  large  brain,  seemed  to  exist  apart 
from  his  ordinaiy  powers  and  passions.  Among  these,  the 
most  exquisite  is  this  Hymn  to  Diana,  which  partakes  of 
the  serenity  of  the  moonlight,  whose  goddess  it  invokes  •. — 

"  Queen  and  huntress  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  hiid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  cliair, 


BEN  JONSON.  99 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep. 
Hespenxs  entreats  tliy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

"  Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 
Dare  itself  to  inteiioose ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 
Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close. 
Bless  us,  then,  with  Avished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

"  Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crj-stal-gleaming  quiver; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 
Space  to  breathe  how  short  soever,  — 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright." 

If,  as  Jonson's  adversaries  maliciously  asserted,  "  every 
line  of  his  poetry  cost  him  a  cup  of  sack,"  we  must,  even 
in  our  more  temperate  days,  pardon  him  the  eighteen 
cups  which,  in  this  melodious  lyric,  went  into  his  mouth 
as  sack,  but,  by  some  precious  chemistry,  came  out 
through  his  pen  as  pearls. 

It  was  inevitable  that  the  imperious  attitude  Jonson 
assumed,  and  the  insolent  pungency  of  his  satire,  should 
rouse  tlie  wrath  of  the  classes  he  lampooned  and  the 
enmity  of  the  poets  he  ridiculed  and  decried.  Among 
those  who  conceived  themselves  assailed,  or  who  felt 
insulted   by   his   arrogant   tone,   were   two   dramatists, 


100  BEN  JONSON. 

Thomas  Dekkar  and  John  Marston.  They  soon  re- 
criminated ;  and,  as  Ben  was  better  fitted  by  nature  to 
dispense  than  to  endure  scorn  and  derision,  he,  in  IGOl, 
produced  The  Poetaster,  the  object  of  which  was  to 
silence  forever,  not  only  Dekkar  and  Marston,  but  all 
other  impudent  doubters  of  his  infallibility.  The  humor 
of  the  thing  is,  that,  in  this  elaborate  attempt  to  convict 
his  adversaries  of  calumny  in  taxing  him  with  self-love 
and  arrogance,  he  ostentatiously  exhibits  the  very  quali- 
ties he  disclaims.  He  keeps  no  terms  with  those  who 
profess  disbelief  in  Ben.  They  are  "  play-dressers  and 
plagiaries,"  "  fools  or  jerking  pedants,"  "  buffoon  barking 
wits,"  tickling  "base  vulgar  ears  with  beggarly  and 
barren  trash,"  while  his  are 

"  The  high  raptures  of  a  happy  JIuse, 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  her  immortal  thought, 
That  kicks  at  earth  with  a  disdainful  heel, 
And  beats  at  heaven's  gate  with  her  bright  hoofs." 

Dekkar  retorted  in  a  play  called  Satiromastrix  ;  or,  the 
Untrussing  of  the  Humorous  Poet ;  but,  though  the  scur- 
rility is  brilliantly  bitter,  it  is  less  efficient  and  "hearted  " 
than  Jonson's.  This  literary  controversy,  conducted 
in  acted  plays,  had  to  the  public  of  that  day  a  zest 
similar  to  that  we  should  enjoy  if  the  editors  of  two 
opposing  political  newspapers  should  meet  in  a  hall  filled 
with  their  subscribers,  and  fling  their  thundering  edito- 


BEN  JONSON.  101 

rials  in  person  at  each  other's  heads.  The  theatre-goers 
seem  to  have  declared  for  Dckkar  and  Marston  ;  and 
Ben,  disgusted  with  such  a  proof  of  their  incapacity  of 
right  judgment,  sulked  and  growled  in  his  den,  and  for 
two  years  gave  nothing  to  the  stage.  He  had,  however, 
found  a  patron,  who  enabled  him  to  do  this  without  under- 
going the  famine  of  insullicient  meat,  and  the  still  more 
dreadful  drought  of  insufficient  drink  ;  for,  in  a  gossip- 
ing diary  of  the  period,  covering  these  two  years,  we 
are  informed,  "  B.  J.  now  lives  with  one  Tovvnsend,  and 
scorns  tlie  xoorldr  "While,  however,  pleasantly  engaged 
in  this  characteristic  occupation,  for  which  he  had  a  nat- 
ural genius,  he  was  meditating  a  play  which  he  thought 
would  demonstrate  to  all  judging  spirits  his  possession 
equally  of  the  acquirements  of  the  scholar  and  the  tal- 
ents of  the  dramatist.  In  the  conclusion  of  the  Apolo- 
getic Dialogue  which  accompanies  The  Poetaster,  he 
had  hinted  his  purpose  in  these  energetic  lines  :  — 

"  Once  I  '11  say,  — 
To  sti-ike  the  ears  of  Time  in  these  fresh  sti'ains, 
As  shall,  beside  the  cunning  of  their  ground, 
Give  cause  to  some  of  wonder,  some  despite, 
And  more  despair  to  imitate  their  sound. 
I  that  spend  half  my  nights  and  all  my  days 
Here  in  a  cell,  to  get  a  dark,  pale  face, 
To  come  forth  with  the  ivy  and  the  bays, 
And  in  this  age  can  hope  no  better  gi"aco, — 


102  BEN  JONSON. 

Leave  me !    There 's  something  come  into  my  thought, 

That  must  and  shall  be  sung  high  and  aloof, 

Safe  from  the  wolfs  black  jaw,  and  the  dull  ass's  hoof!  " 

Accordingly,  in  1 603,  be  produced  his  weighty  trage- 
dy of  Sejanus,  at  Shakespeare's  theatre.  The  Globe,  — 
Shakespeare  himself  acting  one  of  the  inferior  parts. 
Think  of  Shakespeare  laboriously  committing  to  mem- 
ory the  blank  verse  of  Jonson  ! 

Though  Sejanus  failed  of  theatrical  success,  its  wealth 
of  knowledge  and  solid  thought  made  it  the  best  of 
all  answers  to  his  opponents.  It  was  as  if  they  had 
questioned  his  capacity  to  build  a  ship,  and  he  had 
confuted  them  with  a  man-of-war.  To  be  sure,  they 
might  reiterate  their  old  charge  of  "  filching  by  transla- 
tion," for  the  text  of  Sejanus  is  a  mosaic ;  but  it  was 
one  of  Jonson's  maxims  that  he  deserved  as  much 
honor  for  what  he  reproduced  from  the  classics  as  for 
what  he  originated.  Indeed,  in  his  dealings  with  the 
great  poets  and  historians  of  Rome,  whose  language  and 
much  of  whose  spirit  he  had  patiently  mastered,  he  acted 
the  part,  not  of  the  pickpocket,  but  of  the  conqueror. 
He  did  not  meanly  crib  and  pilfer  in  the  territories  of 
the  ancients :  he  rather  pillaged,  or,  in  our  American 
phrase,  "  annexed  "  them.  "  He  has  done  his  robberies 
so  openly,"  says  Dryden,  "  that  one  sees  he  fears  not 
to  be  taxed  by  any  law.     He  invades  authors  like  a 


BEN  JOXSON.  103 

monarch,  and  what  would  be  theft  in  any  other  poet  is 
only  victory  in  him." 

One  incident  connected  with  the  bringing  out  of  Se- 
janus  should  not  be  omitted.  Jonson  told  Drummond 
that  the  Earl  of  Northampton  had  a  mortal  enmity  to 
him  "  for  beating,  on  a  St.  George's  day,  one  of  his  at- 
tenders " ;  and  he  adds,  that  Northampton  had  him 
"  called  before  the  Councell  for  his  Sejanus,"  and  ac- 
cused him  there  both  of  "  Poperic  and  treason." 

Jonsou's  relations  Avith  Shakespeare  seem  always  to 
have  been  friendly ;  and  about  this  time  we  hear  of 
them  as  associate  members  of  the  greatest  of  literary 
and  of  convivial  clubs,  —  the  club  instituted  by  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  and  known  to  all  after-times  as  the 
"  Mermaid,"  being  so  called  from  the  tavern  in  which 
the  meetings  were  held.  Various,  however,  as  were  the 
genius  and  accomplishments  it  included,  it  lacked  one 
phase  of  ability  which  has  deprived  us  of  all  participa- 
tion in  its  wit  and  wisdom.  It  could  boast  of  Shake- 
speare, and  Jonson,  and  Raleigli,  and  Camden,  and 
Beaumont,  and  Seldcn  ;  but,  alas  !  it  had  no  Boswell  to 
record  its  words, 

"  So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtile  flame." 
There  are  traditions  of  "  wit-combats  "  between  Shake- 
speare and  Jonson  ;  and  doubtless  there  was  many  a 
discussion  between  them  touching  tlie  different  principles 


104  BEN   JONSON. 

on  which  their  dramas  were  composed  ;  and  then  Ben, 
astride  his  high  horse  of  the  classics,  probably  blustered 
and  harangued,  and  graciously  informed  the  world's 
greatest  poet  that  he  sometimes  wanted  art  and  some- 
times sense,  and  candidly  advised  him  to  check  the  fatal 
rapidity  and  perilous  combinations  of  his  imagination, — 
while  Shakespeare  smilingly  listened,  and  occasionally 
put  in  an  ironic  woi-d,  deprecating  such  austere  criticism 
of  a  playwright  like  himself,  who  accommodated  his  art 
to  the  humors  of  the  mob  that  crowded  the  "  round  0  " 
of  the  Globe.  There  can  be  no  question  that  Shake- 
speare saw  Ben  through  and  through,  but  he  was  not  a 
man  to  be  intolerant  of  foibles,  and  probably  enjoyed 
the  hectoring  egotism  of  his  friend  as  much  as  he  appre- 
ciated his  real  merits.  As  for  Ben,  the  transcendent 
genius  of  his  brother  dramatist  pierced  through  even 
the  thick  hide  of  his  self-sufiiciency.  "  I  did  honor 
him,"  he  finely  says,  "  this  side  of  idolatry,  as  much  as 
any  other  man." 

On  the  accession  of  James  of  Scotland  to  the  English 
throne,  Jonson  was  employed  by  the  court  and  city  to 
design  a  splendid  pageant  for  the  monarch's  reception ; 
and,  with  that  absence  of  vindictiveness  which  some- 
what atoned  for  his  arrogance,  he  gave  his  recent 
enemy,  Dekkar,  three  fifths  of  the  job.  About  the  same 
time  he  was  reconciled  toMarston  ;  and  in  1G05  assisted 


BEN  JOXSON.  105 

him  and  Chapman  in  a  comedy  called  "  Eastward  Hoe  !" 
One  passage  in  this,  reflecting  on  the  Scotch,  gave  mor- 
tal offence  to  James's  greedy  countrymen,  who  invaded 
England  in  his  train,  and  were  ravenous  and  clamorous 
for  the  spoils  of  office.  Captain  Seagul,  in  the  play, 
praises  what  was  then  the  new  settlement  of  Vii'ginia, 
as  "  a  place  without  sergeants,  or  courtiers,  or  lawyers, 
or  intelligencers,  only  a  few  industrious  Scots  perhapSj 
who  indeed  are  dispersed  over  the  whole  earth.  But  as 
for  them,  there  are  no  greater  friends  to  Englishmen 
and  England,  when  they  are  out  on 't,  in  the  world,  than 
they  are  ;  and,  for  my  own  part,  I  would  a  hundred 
thousand  of  them  were  there,  for  we  are  all  one  coun- 
trymen now,  ye  know,  and  we  should  find  ten  times 
more  comfort  of  them  there  than  we  do  here."  This 
bitter  taunt,  which  probably  made  the  theatre  roar  with 
applause,  was  so  represented  to  the  king,  that  Marston 
and  Chapman  were  arrested  and  imprisoned.  Jonson 
nobly  insisted  on  sharing  their  fate  ;  and  as  he  had 
powerful  friends  at  court,  and  was  esteemed  by  James 
himself,  his  course  may  have  saved  his  friends  from  dis- 
graceful mutilations.  A  report  was  circulated  that  the 
noses  and  ears  of  all  three  were  to  be  slit ;  and  Jonson 
tells  us  that,  in  an  entertainment  he  gave  to  Camden, 
Selden,  and  other  friends,  after  his  liberation,  his  old 
mother  exhibited  a  paper  full  of  "  lustie  strong  poison," 


106  BEN  JONSON. 

which  she  said  she  had  intended  to  mix  in  his  drink, 
in  case  the  threat  of  such  a  shameful  punishment 
were  officially  announced.  The  phrase,  "  his  drink,"  is 
very  characteristic ;  and,  whatever  liquid  was  meant, 
Ave  may  be  sure  that  it  was  not  water,  and  that  the  good 
lady  would  have  daily  had  numerous  opportunities  to 
mix  the  poison  with  it. 

The  five  years  which  succeeded  his  imprisonment 
carried  Jonson  to  the  height  of  his  prosperity  and  glory. 
During  this  period  he  produced  the  thi'ee  great  come- 
dies on  which  his  fame  as  a  dramatist  rests,  —  Tlie  Fox, 
The  Silent  Woman,  and  The  Alchymist,  —  and  also 
many  of  the  most  beautiful  of  those  Masques,  performed 
at  court,  in  which  the  ingenuity,  delicacy,  richness,  and 
elevation  of  his  fancy  found  fittest  expression.  His 
social  position  was  probably  superior  to  Shakespeare's. 
He  was  really  the  Court  Poet  long  before  IGIG,  when 
he  received  the  office,  with  a  pension  of  a  hundred 
marks.  We  have  Clarendon's  testimony  to  the  fact  that 
"  his  conversation  was  very  good,  and-with  men  of  the 
best  note."  Among  his  friends  occurs  the  great  name 
of  Bacon. 

In  1618,  when  "Ben  Jonson"  had  come  to  be  a 
familiar  name  on  the  lips  of  all  educated  men  in  the 
island,  he  made  his  celebrated  journey  on  foot  to  Scot- 
land, and  was  hospitably  entertained  by  the  nobility  and 


BEN  JONSON.  107 

gentry  around  Edinburgh.  Taylor,  the  water  poet,  in 
his  "  Pennylesse  Pilgrimage "  to  Scotland,  has  this 
amiable  reference  to  him.  "  At  Leith,"  he  says,  "  I 
found  my  long  approved  and  assured  good  friend,  Mas- 
ter Benjamin  Jonson,  at  one  Master  John  Stuart's 
house.  I  thank  him  for  his-  great  kindness  ;  for,  at  my 
taking  leave  of  him,  he  gave  me  a  piece  of  gold  of 
two-and-twenty  shillings'  value,  to  drink  his  health  in 
England."  One  object  of  Jonson's  journey  was  to 
visit  the  poet  Drummond.  He  passed  three  or  four 
weeks  with  Drummond  at  Hawthornden,  and  poured 
out  his  mind  to  him  without  reserve  or  stint.  The  fini- 
cal and  fastidious  poet  was  somewhat  startled  at  this 
irruption  of  his  burly  guest  into  his  dainty  solitude, 
took  notes  of  his  free  conversation,  especially  when  he 
decried  his  contemporarie?,  and  further  performed  the 
rites  of  hospitality  by  adding  a  caustic,  though  keen, 
summary  of  his  qualities  of  character.  Thus,  accord- 
ing to  his  dear  friend's  charitable  analysis,  Ben  "  was  a 
great  lover  and  praiser  of  himself;  a  contemner  and 
scorner  of  others ;  given  rather  to  losse  a  friend  than  a 
jest ;  jealous  of  every  word  and  action  of  those  about 
him  (especiallie  after  drink,  which  is  one  of  the  ele- 
ments in  which  he  liveth)  ;  a  dissembler  of  ill  parts 
which  raigne  in  him,  a  bragger  of  some  good  that  he 
wanteth ;  thinketh  nothing  well  bot  what  cither  he  him- 


108  BEN  JONSON. 

self  01'  some  of  his  friends  and  countrymen  have  said  or 
done ;  he  is  passionately  kynde  and  angry ;  cax'eless 
either  to  gaine  or  keep ;  vindictive,  but,  if  he  be  well 
answered,  at  himself."  It  is  not  much  to  the  credit  of 
Jonson's  insight,  that,  after  flooding  his  pensively  taci- 
turn host  with  his  boisterous  and  dogmatic  talk,  he 
parted  with  him  under  the  impression  that  he  was  leav- 
ing an  assured  friend.  Ah !  your  demure  listeners  to 
your  unguarded  conversation,  —  they  are  the  ones  that 
give  the  fatal  stabs  ! 

A  literal  transcript  of  Drummond's  original  notes 
of  Jonson's  conversations,  made  by  Sir  Robert  Sibbald 
about  the  year  1710,  has  been  published  in  the  collec- 
tions of  the  Shakespeare  Society.  This  is  a  more  ex- 
tended report  than  that  included  in  Drummond's  works, 
tliough  still  not  so  full  as  the  reader  might  desire.  The 
stoutness  of  Ben's  character  is  felt  in  every  utterance. 
Thus  he  tells  Drummond  that  "  he  never  esteemed  of 
a  man  for  the  name  of  a  lord,"  —  a  sentiment  which  he 
had  expressed  more  impressively  in  his  published  epi- 
gram on  Burleigh  :  — 

"  Cecil,  the  grave,  the  wise,  the  great,  the  good. 
What  is  there  more  that  can  ennoble  blood?  " 

He  had,  it  seems,  "  a  minde  to  be  a  churchman,  and,  so 
he  might  have  favor  to  make  one  sermon  to  the  King, 
he  carcth  not  what  thereafter  sould  befall  him ;  for  he 


BEN  JOXSON.  109 

would  not  flatter  though  he  saw  Death."  Queen  Eliza- 
beth is  the  mark  of  a  most  scandalous  imputation,  and 
the  mildest  of  Ben's  remarks  respecting  her  is  that  she 
"  never  saw  herself,  after  she  became  old,  in  a  true  glass  ; 
they  painted  her,  and  sometymes  would  vermilioji  her 
nose."  "  Of  all  styles,"  he  said,  "  he  most  loved  to  be 
named  Honest,  and  hath  of  that  one  hundred  letters 
so  naming  him."  His  judgments  on  other  poets  were 
insolently  magisterial.  "  Spenser's  stanzas  pleased  him 
not,  nor  his  matter  "  ;  Samuel  Daniel  was  a  good  honest 
man,  but  no  poet ;  Donne,  though  "  the  first  poet  in  the 
world  in  some  things,"  for  "  not  keeping  of  accent,  de- 
served hanging "  ;  Abram  Fraunce,  "  in  his  English 
hexameters,  was  a  foole  " ;  Sharpham,  Day,  and  Dekkar 
were  all  rogues  ;  Francis  Beaumont  "  loved  too  much 
himself  and  his  own  verses."  Some  biographical  items 
in  the  record  of  these  conversations  are  of  interest.  It 
seems  that  the  first  day  of  every  new  year  the  Earl  of 
Pembroke  sent  him  twenty  pounds  "  to  buy  bookes." 
By  all  his  plays  he  never  gained  two  hundred  pounds. 
"  Sundry  tymes  he  hath  devoured  his  bookes,"  that  is, 
sold  them.to  supply  himself  with  necessaries.  "When  he 
was  imprisoned  for  killing  his  brother  actor  in  a  duel,  in 
the  Queen's  time,  "  his  judges  could  get  nothing  of  him 
to  all  their  demands  but  I  and  No.  They  placed  two 
damn'd  villains,  to  catch  advantage  of  him,  with  him. 


110  BEN  JONSON. 

but  he  was  advertised  by  his  keeper  " ;  and  he  added,  as 
if  the  revenge  was  as  terrible  as  the  offence,  "  of  the 
spies  he  hath  ane  epigrame."  He  told  a  few  personal 
stories  to  Drummond,  calculated  to  moderate  our  won- 
der that  Mrs.  Jonson  was  a  shrew  ;  and,  as  they  were 
boastingly  told,  we  must  suppose  that  his  manners  were 
not  so  austere  as  his  verse.  But  perhaps  the  most 
characteristic  image  he  has  left  of  himself,  through  these 
conversations,  is  this :  "  He  hath  consumed  a  whole 
night  in  lying  looking  to  his  great  toe,  about  which  he 
hath  seen  Tartars  and  Turks,  Romans  and  Carthagin- 
ians, feight  in  his  imagination." 

Jonson's  fortunes  seem  to  have  suffered  little  abate- 
ment until  the  death  of  King  James,  in  1625.  Then 
declining  pojiularity  and  declining  health  combined 
their  malice  to  bi'eak  the  veteran  down;  and  the  re- 
maining twelve  years  of  his  life  were  passed  in  doing 
battle  with  those  relentless  enemies  of  poets,  —  want 
and  disease.  The  orange  —  or  rather  the  lemon  —  was 
squeezed,  and  both  court  and  public  seemed  disposed  to 
throw  away  the  peel.  In  the  epilogue  to  his  play  of 
The  New  Inn,  brought  out  in  1630,  the  old  tone  of  de- 
fiance is  gone.  He  touchingly  appeals  to  the  audience 
as  one  who  is  "  sick  and  sad " ;  but,  with  a  noble  hu- 
mility, he  begs  they  will  refer  none  of  the  defects  of  the 
work  to  mental  decay. 


BEN  JOXSON.  Ill 

"  All  that  his  weak  and  faltering  tongue  doth  cravo 
Is  that  you  not  refer  it  to  his  brain; 
That 's  yet  inihurt,  although  set  round  with  pain." 

The  audience  were  insensible  to  this  appeal.  They 
found  the  play  dull,  and  hooted  it  from  the  stage.  Per- 
haps, after  having  been  bullied  so  long,  they  took  de- 
light in  having  Ben  "  on  the  hip."  Charles  the  First, 
however,  who  up  to  this  time  seems  to  have  neg- 
lected his  father's  favorite,  now  generously  sent  him 
a  hundred  pounds  to  cheer  him  in  his  misfortunes  ;  and 
shortly  after  he  raised  his  salary,  as  Court  Poet,  from  a 
hundred  marks  to  a  hundred  pounds,  adding,  in  compli- 
ment to  Jonson's  known  tastes,  a  tierce  of  Canary,  —  a 
wine  of  which  he  was  so  fond  as  to  be  nicknamed,  in 
ironical  reference  to  a  corpulence  which  rather  assimi- 
lated him  to  the  ox,  "  a  Canary  bird."  It  is  to  this 
period,  we  suppose,  we  must  refer  his  testimony  to  his 
own  obesity  in  his  Epistle  to  my  Lady  Coventry. 

"  So  you  have  gained  a  Sen-ant  and  a  Muso : 
The  first  of  which  I  fear  you  will  refuse, 
And  you  may  justly;  being  a  tardy,  cold, 
Unprofitable  chattle,  fat  and  old, 
Laden  with  belly,  and  doth  hardly  approach 
His  friends,  but  to  break  chairs  or  crack  a  coach. 
His  weight  is  twenty  stone,  within  two  pound ; 
And  that 's  made  up,  as  doth  the  purse  abound." 

As  his  life  declined,  it  does  not  appear  that  his  dispo- 


112  BEN  JONSON. 

sition  was  essentially  modified.  There  are  two  charac- 
teristic references  to  him  in  his  old  age,  which  prove 
that  Ben,  attacked  by  palsy  and  dropsy,  with  a  reputa- 
tion perceptibly  waning,  was  Ben  still.  One  is  from  Sir 
John  Suckhng's  pleasantly  malicious  "  Session  of  the 
Poets  "  :  — 

"  The  first  that  broke  silence  was  good  old  Ben, 
Prepared  before  with  Canary  wine, 
And  he  told  them  plainly  he  deserved  the  bays, 
For  his  were  called  works  where  others  were  but  plays. 

"  Apollo  stopped  him  there,  and  bade  him  not  go  on; 
'T  was  merit,  he  said,  and  not  presumption, 
Must  caiTy  't;  at  which  Ben  turned  about. 
And  in  great  choler  offered  to  go  out." 

That  is  a  saucy  touch,  —  that  of  Ben's  rage  when  ho  is 
told  that  presumption  is  not,  before  Apollo,  to  take  the 
place  of  merit,  or  even  to  back  it  ! 

The  other  notice  is  in  a  letter  from  Howell  to 
Sir  Thomas  Hawk,  written  the  year  before  Jonson's 
death  :  — 

"  I  was  invited  yesternight  to  a  solemn  supper  by 
B.  J.,  where  you  were  deeply  remembered.  There  was 
good  company,  excellent  cheer,  choice  wines,  and  jovial 
welcome.  One  thing  intervened  which  almost  spoiled 
the  relish  of  the  rest,  —  that  B.  began  to  engross  all  the 
discourse,  to  vapor  extremely  by  himself,  and,  by  vilify- 


BEN  JONSON.  113 

ing  others,  to  magnify  his  own  Muse.  For  my  part,  I 
am  content  to  dispense  witli  tlie  Roman  infirmity  of 
Ben,  now  that  time  has  snowed  upon  his  pericranium." 

But  this  snow  of  time,  however  it  may  have  begun 
to  cover  up  the  massive  quahties  of  his  mind,  seems  to 
have  left  untouched  his  strictly  poetic  faculty.  That 
slione  out  in  his  last  hours,  with  more  than  usual  splen- 
dor, in  tlie  beautiful  pastoral  drama  of  The  Sad  Shep- 
herd ;  and  it  may  be  doubted  if  in  the  whole  of  his 
works  any  other  passage  can  be  found  so  exquisite  in 
sentiment,  fancy,  and  expression  as  the  opening  lines  of 
this  charming  product  of  his  old  age. 

"  Here  she  was  wont  to  go !  and  here !  and  here ! 
Just  where  those  daisies,  pinks,  and  Yiolets  grow  : 
The  world  may  find  the  Spring  by  following  her  ; 
For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left  : 
Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 
Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk ! 
But  like  the  soft  west-wind  she  shot  along, 
And  where  she  went  the  flowers  took  thickest  root, 
As  she  had  sowed  them  with  her  odorous  foot!  " 

Before  he  could  complete  The  Sad  Shepherd  he  was 
struck  with  mortal  illness ;  and  the  brave  old  man  pre- 
pared to  meet  his  last  enemy,  and,  if  possible,  convert 
him  into  a  friend.  As  early  as  1606  he  had  returned 
to  the  English  Church,  after  having  been  for  twelve 
years   a   Romanist ;   and   his   penitent   death-bed   was 


114  BEN  JONSON. 

attended  by  the  Bishop  of  "Winchester.  He  died  in 
August,  1637,  in  his  sixty-fourth  year,  and  was  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey.  The  inscription  on  the  com- 
mon pavement  stone  which  was  laid  over  his  grave, 

"  O  RARE  Bex  Joxson  ! " 

still  expresses,  after  a  lapse  of  two  hundred  years,  the 
feelings  of  all  readers  of  the  English  race. 

It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  this  epithet  is 
sufficiently  indefinite  to  allow  widely  differing  estimates 
of  the  value  of  his  works.  In  a  critical  view,  the  most 
obvious  characteristic  of  his  mind  is  its  bulk ;  but  its 
creativeness  bears  no  proportion  to  its  raassiveness. 
His  faculties,  ranged  according  to  their  relative  strength, 
would  fall  into  this  rank :  —  first,  Ben  ;  next,  under- 
standing ;  next,  memory ;  next,  humor ;  next,  fancy ; 
and  last  and  least,  imagination.  Thus,  in  the  strictly 
poetic  action  of  his  mind,  his  fancy  and  imagination 
being  subordinated  to  his  other  faculties,  and  not  co-or- 
dinated with  them,  his  whole  nature  is  not  kindled,  and 
his  best  masques  and  sweetest  lyrics  give  no  idea  of  the 
general  lai'geness  of  the  man.  In  them  the  burly  giant 
becomes  gracefully  petite;  it  is  Fletcher's  Oniphale 
"smiling  the  club"  out  of  the  hand  of  Hercules,  and 
making  him,  for  the  time,  "  spin  her  smocks."  Now  the 
greatest  poetical  creations  of  Shakespeare  are  those  in 


BEN  JOXSON.  115 

which  he  is  greatest  in  reason,  and  greatest  in  passion, 
and  greatest  in  knowledge,  as  well  as  greatest  in  imagi- 
nation, —  his  poetic  power  being 

"  Like  to  the  fabled  Cytlierea's  zone, 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty." 

His  mind  is  "  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite,"  while 
Jonson's  rather  suggests  the  pudding-stone.  The  poet 
in  Ben  being  thus  but  a  comparatively  small  portion 
of  Ben,  works  by  effort,  rather  than  inspiration,  and 
leaves  the  impression  of  ingenuity  rather  than  inven- 
tiveness. But  in  his  tragedies  of  Sejanus  and  Catiline, 
and  especially  in  his  three  great  comedies  of  The  Fox, 
The  Alchymist,  and  The  Silent  Woman,  the  whole  man 
is  thrust  forward,  with  his  towering  individuality,  his 
massive  understanding,  his  wide  knowledge  of  the  baser 
side  of  life,  his  relentless  scorn  of  weakness  and  Avicked- 
ness,  his  vivid  memory  of  facts  and  ideas  derived  from 
books.  They  seem  written  with  his  fist.  But,  though 
they  convey  a  powerful  impression  of  his  collective 
ability,  they  do  not  convey  a  poetic  impression,  and 
hardly  an  agreeable  one.  His  strongest  characters,  as 
might  be  expected,  are  not  heroes  or  martyrs,  but  cheats 
or  dupes.  His  most  magnificent  cheat  is  Volpone,  in 
The  Fox ;  his  most  magnificent  dupe  is  Sir  Epicure 
Mammon,  in  The  Alchymist ;  but  in  their  most  gor- 
geous mental  rioting  in  imaginary  objects  of  sense,  the 


116  BEN   JONSON. 

effect  is  produced  by  a  dogged  accumulation  of  suc- 
cessive images,  which  are  hnked  by  no  train  of  strictly 
imaginative  association,  and  are  not  fused  into  unity  of 
purpose  by  the  fire  of  passion-penetrated  imagination. 

Indeed,  it  is  a  curious  psychological  study  to  watch 
the  laborious  process  by  which  Jonson  drags  his  thoughts 
and  fancies  from  the  reluctant  and  resisting  soil  of  his 
mind,  and  then  lays  them,  one  after  the  other,  with  a 
deep-drawn  breath,  on  his  page.  Each  is  forced  into 
form  by  main  strength,  as  we  sometimes  see  a  pillar 
of  granite  wearily  drawn  through  the  street  by  a  scox-e 
of  straining  oxen.  Take,  for  example.  Sir  Epicure 
Mammon's  detail  of  the  luxuries  he  will  revel  in  when 
his  possession  of  the  philosopher's  stone  shall  have 
given  him  boundless  wealth.  The  first  cup  of  Canary 
and  the  first  tug  of  invention  bring  up  this  enormous 
piece  of  humor :  — 

"  My  flatterers 
Shall  be  flle  pure  and  gi-avest  of  divines 
That  I  can  get  for  money." 

Then  another  wrench  of  the  mind,  and,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
another  swallow  of  the  liquid,  and  we  have  this :  — 

"  My  meat  shall  all  come  in  in  Indian  shells, 
Dishes  of  agate,  set  in  gold,  and  studded 
With  emeralds,  sapphires,  hyacinths,  and  rubies." 

Glue  that  on,  and  now  for  another  tug :  — 


BEN  JONSON.  117 

"  Jly  sliirts 
I  '11  have  of  taffeta-sarsnet,  soft  and  light 
As  cobwebs ;  and  for  all  my  other  raiment, 
.    It  shall  be  such  as  might  provoke  the  Persian, 
Were  he  to  teach  the  world  riot  anew." 

And  then,  a  little  heated,  his  imagination  is  stung  into 
action,  and  this  refinement  of  sensation  flashes  out :  — 

"  My  gloves  of  fishes'  and  birds'  skins  perfumed  ' 
Widi  gums  of  Paradise  and  Eastern  air." 

And  now  we  have  an  extravagance  jerked  violently  out 
from  his  logical  fancy  :  — 

"  I  will  have  all  my  beds  blo^^•n  up,  not  stiiffed ; 
Down  is  too  hard." 

But  all  this  patient  accumulation  of  particulars,  each 
costing  a  mighty  effort  of  memory  or  analogy,  produces 
no  cumulative  effect.  Certainly,  the  word  "  strains,"  as 
employed  to  designate  the  effusions  of  poetry,  has  a 
peculiar  significance  as  applied  to  Jonson's  verse.  No 
hewer  of  wood  or  drawer  of  water  ever  earned  his 
daily  wages  by  a  more  conscientious  putting  forth  of 
daily  labor.  Critics  —  and  among  the  critics  Ben  is  the 
most  clamorous  —  call  upon  us  to  admire  and  praise  the 
construction  of  his  plays.  But  his  plots,  admirable  of 
their  kind,  are  still  but  elaborate  contrivances  of  the 
understanding,  all  distinctly  thought  out  beforehand  by 
the  method  of  logic,  not  the  method  of  imagination  ; 


118  BEN   JONSON. 

regular  in  external  form,  but  animated  by  no  living 
internal  principle ;  artful,  but  not  artistic ;  ingenious 
schemes,  not  organic  growths ;  and  conveying  the  same 
kind  of  pleasure  we  experience  in  inspecting  other 
mechanical  contrivances.  His  method  is  neither  the 
method  of  nature  nor  the  method  of  art,  but  the  method 
of  artifice.  A  drama  of  Shakespeare  may  be  compared 
to  an  oak ;  a  drama  by  Jonson  to  a  cunningly  fashioned 
box,  made  of  oak-wood,  with  some  living  plants  growing 
in  it.     Jonson  is  big ;  Shakespeare  is  great. 

Still  we  say,  "  O  rare  Ben  Jonson  ! "  A  large,  rude, 
clumsy,  English  force,  irritable,  egotistic,  dogmatic,  and 
quarrelsome,  but  brave,  generous,  and  placable;  with 
no  taint  of  a  malignant  vice  in  his  boisterous  foibles ; 
with  a  good  deal  of  the  bulldog  in  him,  but  nothing 
of  the  spaniel,  and  one  whose  growl  was  ever  worse 
than  his  bite ;  —  he,  the  bricklayer's  apprentice,  fighting 
his  way  to  eminence  through  the  roughest  obstacles, 
capable  of  wrath,  but  incapable  of  falsehood,  willing  to 
boast,  but  scorning  to  creep,  still  sturdily  keeps  his  hard- 
won  position  among  the  Elizabethan  worthies  as  poet, 
playwright,  scholar,  man  of  letters,  man  of  muscle  and 
brawn  ;  as  friend  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  and  Chap- 
man and  Bacon  and  Shakespeare  ;  and  as  ever  ready, 
in  all  places  and  at  all  times,  to  assert  the  manhood 
of  Ben  by  tongue  and  pen  and  sword. 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DEAT^IATISTS. 

XN  the  present  chapter  we  propose  to  consider  si^^ 
dramatists  who  were  more  immediately  the  contem- 
poraries of  Shakespeare  and  Jonson,  and  who  have  the 
precedence  in  time,  —  and  three  of  them,  if  we  may  be- 
heve  some  critics,  not  altogether  without  claim  to  the 
precedence  in  merit,  —  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Mas- 
singer,  and  Ford.  These  are  Hejwood,  Middletou, 
Marston,  Dekkar,  "Webster,  and  Chapman. 

They  belong  to  the  school  of  dramatists  of  which 
Shakespeare  was  the  head,  and  which  is  distinguished 
from  the  school  of  Jonson  by  essential  differences  of 
principle.  Jonson  constructed  his  plays  on  definite  ex- 
ternal rules,  and  could  appeal  confidently  to  the  critical 
understanding,  in  case  the  regularity  of  his  plot  and  the 
keeping  of  his  characters  were  called  in  question. 
Shakespeare  constructed  his,  not  according  to  any  rules 
which  could  be  drawn  from  the  practice  of  other  dram- 
atists, but  according  to  those  interior  laws  which  the 
mind,  in  its  creative  action,  instinctively  divines  and 
spontaneously  obeys.  In  his  case,  the  appeal  is  not  to 
the  understanding  alone,  but  to  the  feelings  and  faculties 


120  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN   DRAMATISTS. 

which  were  concerned  in  producing  the  work  itself;  and 
tlie  symmetry  of  the  whole  is  felt  by  hundreds  who 
could  not  frame  an  argument  to  sustain  it.  The  laws  to 
which  his  genius  submitted  were  different  from  those  to 
which  other  dramatists  had  submitted,  because  the  time, 
the  circumstances,  the  materials,  the  purpose  aimed  at, 
were  different.  The  time  demanded  a  drama  which 
should  represent  human  life  in  all  its  diversity,  and  in 
which  the  tragic  and  comic,  the  high  and  the  low,  should 
be  in  juxtaposition,  if  not  in  combination.  The  dram- 
atists of  whom  we  are  about  to  speak  represented  them 
in  juxtaposition,  and  rarely  succeeded  in  vitally  com- 
bining them  so  as  to  produce  symmetrical  works.  Their 
comedy  and  tragedy,  their  humor  and  passion,  move  iu 
parallel  rather  than  in  converging  lines.  They  have  di- 
versity ;  but  as  their  diversity  neither  springs  from,  nor 
tends  to,  a  central  principle  of  organization  or  of  order, 
the  result  is  often  a  splendid  anarchy  of  detached  scenes, 
more  effective  as  detached  than  as  related.  Shakespeare 
alone  had  the  comprehensive  energy  of  impassioned 
imagination  to  fuse  into  unity  the  almost  unmanageable 
materials  of  his  drama,  to  organize  this  anarchy  into  a 
new  and  most  complex  order,  and  to  make  a  world-wide 
variety  of  character  and  incident  consistent  with  one- 
ness of  impression.  Jonson,  not  pretending  to  give  his 
work  this  organic  form,  put  forth  his  whole  strength  to 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  121 

give  it  mechanical  regularity,  every  line  in  his  solide?t 
plays  costing  him,  as  the  wits  said,  "  a  cup  of  sack." 
But  the  force  implied  in  a  Shakespearian  drama,  a  force 
that  crushes  and  dissolves  the  resisting  materials  into 
their  elements,  and  recombines  or  fuses  them  into  a  new 
substance,  is  a  force  so  diiFerent  in  kind  from  Jonson's, 
that  it  would,  of  course,  be  idle  to  attempt  an  estimate  of 
its  superiority  in  degree.  And  in  regard  to  those  minor 
dramatists  who  will  be  the  subjects  of  the  present  essay, 
if  they  fall  below  Jonson  in  general  ability,  they  nearly 
all  afford  scenes  and  passages  superior  to  his  best  in 
depth  of  passion,  vigor  of  imagination,  and  audacious 
self-committal  to  the  primitive  instincts  of  the  heart. 

The  most  profuse,  but  perhaps  the  least  poetic  of 
these  dramatists,  was  Thomas  Heywood,  of  whom  little 
is  known,  except  that  he  was  one  of  the  most  prolific 
writers  the  world  has  ever  seen.  In  .1598  he  became 
an  actor,  or,  as  Henslowe,  who  employed  him,  phrases 
it,  "  came  and  hired  himself  to  me  as  a  covenanted 
servant  for  two  years."  The  date  of  his  first  published 
drama  is  IGOl  ;  that  of  his  last  published  work,  a  Gen- 
eral History  of  "Women,  is  1657.  As  early  as  1633  he 
represents  himself  as  having  had  an  "  entire  hand,  or  at 
least  a  main  finger,"  in  two  hundred  and  twenty  plays, 
of  which  only  twenty-three  were  printed.  True  it  is,  he 
says,  "  that  my  plays  are  not  exposed  to  the  world  in 
6 


122  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

volumes,  to  bear  the  title  of  Works,  as  others :  one  rea- 
son is,  that  many  of  them,  by  shifting  and  change  of 
companies,  have  been  negligently  lost ;  others  of  them 
are  still  retained  in  the  hands  of  some  actors,  who  think  it 
against  their  peculiar  profit  to  have  them  come  in  print ; 
and  a  third,  that  it  was  never  any  great  ambition  in  me 
to  be  in  this  kind  voluminously  read."  It  was  said  of 
him,  by  a  contemporary,  that  "  he  not  only  acted  every 
day,  but  also  obliged  himself  to  write  a  sheet  every 
day  for  several  years  ;  but  many  of  his  plays  being  com- 
posed loosely  in  taverns,  occasions  them  to  be  so  mean." 
Besides  his  labors  as  a  playwright,  he  worked  as  trans- 
lator, versifier,  and  general  maker  of  books.  Late  in 
life  he  conceived  the  design  of  writing  the  lives  of  all 
the  poets  of  the  world,  including  his  contemporaries. 
Had  this  project  been  carried  out,  we  should  have  known 
something  about  the  external  life  of  Shakespeare ;  for 
Heywood  must  have  carried  in  his  brain  many  of  those 
facts  which  we  of  this  age  are  most  curious  to  know. 

Heywood's  best  plays  evince  large  observation,  con- 
siderable dramatic  skill,  a  sweet  and  humane  spirit,  and 
an  easy  command  of  language.  His  style,  indeed,  is 
singularly  simple,  pure,  clear,  and  straightforward  ;  but 
it  conveys  the  impression  of  a  mind  so  diffused  as 
almost  to  be  characterless,  and  incapable  of  flashing  its 
thoughts  through  the  images  of  imaginative  passion.    He 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  123 

is  more  prosaic,  closer  to  ordinary  life  and  character, 
than  his  contemporaries.  Two  of  his  plays,  and  the 
best  of  them  all,  A  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness,  and 
The  English  Traveller,  are  thoroughly  domestic  dramas, 
the  first,  and  not  the  worst,  of  their  class.  The  plot  of 
The  English  Traveller  is  specially  good ;  and  in  read- 
ing few  works  of  fiction  do  we  receive  a  greater  shock 
of  surprise  than  in  Geraldine's  discovery  of  the  infidel- 
ity of  Wincott's  wife,  whom  he  loves  with  a  Platonic 
devotion.  It  is  as  unanticipated  as  the  discovery,  in 
Jonson's  Silent  Woman,  that  Epicoene  is  no  woman  at 
all,  while  at  the  same  time  it  has  less  the  appearance 
of  artifice,  and  is  more  the  result  of  natural  causes. 

With  less  fluency  of  diction,  less  skill  in  fastening  the 
reader's  interest  to  his  fable,  harsher  in  versification, 
and  generally  clumsier  in  construction,  the  best  plays 
of  Thomas  Middleton  are  still  superior  to  Heywood's 
in  force  of  imagination,  depth  of  passion,  and  fulness  of 
matter.  It  must,  however,  be  admitted  that  the  senti- 
ments which  direct  his  powers  are  not  so  fine  as  Hey- 
wood's. He  depresses  the  mind,  rather  than  invigorates 
it.  The  eye  he  cast  on  human  life  was  not  the  eye  of 
a  sympathizing  poet,  but  rather  that  of  a  sagacious 
cynic.  His  observation,  though  sharp,  close,  and  vigi- 
lant, is  somewhat  ironic  and  unfeeling.  His  penetrating, 
incisive  intellect  cuts  its  way  to  the  heart  of  a  character 


124  MINOR   ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

as  with  a  knife  ;  and  if  he  lays  bare  its  throbs  of  guilt 
and  weakness,  and  lets  you  into  the  secrets  of  its 
organization,  he  conceives  his  whole  work  is  performed. 
This  criticism  applies  even  to  his  tragedy  of  "Women 
Beware  Women,  a  drama  which  shows  a  deep  study  of 
the  sources  of  human  frailty,  considerable  skill  in  ex- 
hibiting the  passions  in  their  consecutive,  if  not  in  their 
conflicting  action,  and  a  firm  hold  upon  character ;  but 
it  lacks  pathos,  tenderness,  and  humanity  ;  its  power  is 
out  of  all  proportion  to  its  geniality ;  the  characters, 
while  they  stand  definitely  out  to  the  eye,  are  seen 
through  no  visionary  medium  of  sentiment  and  fancy ; 
and  the  reader  feels  the  force  of  Leantio's  own  agoniz- 
ing complaint,  that  his  afiliction  is 

"  Of  greater  weight  than  youth  was  made  to  bear, 
As  if  a  punishment  of  after-life 
Were  fall'n  upon  man  here,  so  new  it  is 
To  flesh  and  blood,  so  strange,  so  insupportable." 

There  is,  indeed,  no  atmosphere  to  Middleton's  mind ; 
and  the  hard,  bald  caustic  peculiarity  of  his  genius, 
which  is  unpleasingly  felt  in  reading  any  one  of  his 
plays,  becomes  a  source  of  painful  weariness  as  we  plod 
doggedly  through  the  five  thick  volumes  of  his  works. 
Like  the  incantations  of  his  own  witches,  it  "  casts  a 
thick  scurf  over  life."  It  is  most  powerfully  felt  in  his 
tragedy  of  The  Changeling,  at  once  the  most  oppress- 


5IIN0R  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  125 

ive  and  impressive  effort  of  his  genius.  Tlie  character 
of  De  Flores  in  this  play  has  in  it  a  strangeness  of 
iniquity,  such  as  we  think  is  hardly  paralleled  in  the 
whole  range  of  the  Elizabethan  drama.  The  passions 
of  this  brute-imp  are  not  human.  They  are  such  as 
might  be  conceived  of  as  springing  from  the  union  of 
animal  with  fiendish  impulses,  in  a  nature  which  knew 
no  law  outside  of  its  own  lust,  and  was  as  incapable  of 
a  scruple  as  of  a  sympathy. 

But  of  all  the  dramatists  of  the  time,  the  most  dis- 
agreeable in  disposition,  though  by  no  means  the  least 
powerful  in  mind,  was  John  Marston.  The  time  of  his 
birth  is  not  known ;  his  name  is  entangled  in  contempo- 
rary records  with  that  of  another  John  Marston ;  and 
we  may  be  sure  that  his  mischief-loving  spirit  would 
have  been  delighted  could  he  have  anticipated  that  the 
antiquaries,  a  century  after  his  death,  would  be  driven  to 
despair  by  the  difficulty  of  discriminating  one  from  the 
other.  It  is  more  than  probable,  however,  that  he  was 
the  John  Marston  who  was  of  a  respectable  family  in 
Shropshire,  who  took  his  bachelor's  degree  at  Oxford  in 
1592,  and  who  was  afterwards  married  to  a  daughter 
of  a  chaplain  of  James  the  First.  Whatever  may 
have  been  Marston's  antecedents,  they  were  such  as  to 
gratify  his  tastes  as  a  cynical  observer  of  the  crimes  and 
foUies  of   men,  —  an  observer  whose   hatred    of  evil 


126  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

sprang  from  no  love  of  good,  but  to  whom  the  sight  of 
depravity  and  baseness  was  welcome,  inasmuch  as  it 
afforded  him  the  occasion  to  indulge  his  own  scorn  and 
pride.  His  ambition  was  to  be  the  English  Juvenal  ; 
and  it  must  be  conceded  that  he  had  the  true  lago-like 
disposition  "  to  spy  out  abuses."  Accordingly,  in  1598, 
he  published  a  series  of  venomous  satires  called  The 
Scourge  of  Villanie,  rough  in  versification,  condensed 
in  thought,  tainted  in  matter,  evincing  a  cankered  more 
than  a  caustic  spirit,  and  producing  an  effect  at  once 
indecent  and  inhuman.  To  prove  that  this  scourging 
of  villany,  which  would  have  put  Mephistopheles  to  the 
blush,  was  inspired  by  no  respect  for  virtue,  he  soon 
followed  it  up  with  a  poem  so  licentious  that,  before  it 
was  circulated  to  any  extent,  it  was  suppressed  by  order 
of  Archbishop  Whitgift,  and  nearly  all  the  copies  de- 
stroyed. A  writer  could  not  be  thus  dishonored  without 
being  brought  prominently  into  notice,  and  old  Hens- 
lowe,  the  manager,  was  after  him  at  once  to  secure  his 
libellous  ability  for  the  Eose.  Accordingly,  we  learn 
from  Henslowe's  diary,  under  date  of  September  28, 
1599,  that  he  had  lent  to  "William  Borne,  "  to  lend  unto 
John  Mastone,"  "  the  new  poete,"  "  the  sum  of  forty 
shillings,"  in  earnest  of  some  work  not  named.  There 
is  an  undated  letter  of  Marston  to  Henslowe,  written 
probably  in  reference  to  this  matter,  which  is  character- 
istic in  its  disdainfully  confident  tone.     Thus  it  runs  :  — 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  127 

"  Mr.  Henslowe,  at  the  Rose  on  the  Bankside. 

"  If  you  hke  my  playe  of  Columbus,  it  is  verie  well, 
and  you  shall  give  me  noe  more  than  twentie  poundes  for 
it,  but  If  nott,  lett  me  have  it  by  the  Bearer  againe,  as 
I  know  the  kinges  men  will  freelie  give  me  as  much  for 
it,  and  the  profitts  of  the  third  daye  moreover. 
"  Soe  I  rest  yours, 

"  John  Marston." 

He  seems  not  to  have  been  popular  among  the  band 
of  dramatists  he  now  joined,  and  it  is  probable  that  his 
insulting  manners  were  not  sustained  by  corresponding 
courage.  Ben  Jonson  had  many  quarrels  with  him, 
both  literary  and  personal,  and  mentions  one  occasion 
on  which  he  beat  him  and  took  away  his  pistol.  His 
temper  was  Italian,  i-ather  than  English,  and  one  would 
conceive  of  him  as  quicker  with  the  stiletto  than  the  fist. 
His  connection  with  the  stage  ceased,  in  1613,  after  he 
had  produced  a  number  of  dramas,  of  which  nine  have 
been  preserved.  He  died  about  twenty  years  after- 
wards, in  1634,  seemingly  in  comfortable  circumstances. 

Marston's  plays,  whether  comedies  or  tragedies,  all 
bear  the  mark  of  his  bitter  and  misanthropic  spirit,  — 
a  spirit  that  seemed  cursed  by  the  companionship  of  its 
own  thoughts,  and  forced  them  out  through  a  well- 
grounded  fear  that  they  would  fester  if  left  within.    His 


128  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAlilATISTS. 

comedies  of  The  Malcontent,  The  Fawn,  and  What 
You  Will,  have  no  genuine  mirth,  though  an  abundance 
of  scornful  wit,  —  of  wit  which,  in  his  own  words, 
"  stings,  blisters,  galls  off  the  skin,  with  the  acrimony 
of  its  sharp  quickness."  The  baser  its  objects,  the 
brighter  its  gleam.  It  is  stimulated  by  the  desire  to 
give  pain,  rather  than  the  wish  to  communicate  pleas- 
ure. Marston  is  not  without  sprighthness,  but  his 
sprightliness  is  never  the  sprightliness  of  the  kid,  though 
it  is  sometimes  that  of  the  hyena,  and  sometimes  that 
of  the  polecat.  In  his  Malcontent  be  probably  drew  a 
flattering  likeness  of  bis  inner  self:  yet  the  most  com- 
passionate reader  of  the  play  would  experience  little 
pity  in  seeing  the  Malcontent  hanged.  So  much,  in- 
deed, of  Marston's  satire  is  directed  at  depravity,  that 
Ben  Jonson  used  to  say  that  "  Marston  wrote  his  father- 
in-law's  preachings,  and  his  father-in-law  his  comedies." 
It  is  to  be  hoped,  however,  that  the  spirit  of  the  chap- 
lain's tirades  against  sins  was  not,  like  his  son-in-law's, 
worse  than  the  sins  themselves. 

If  Marston's  comic  vein  is  thus,  to  use  one  of  Dek- 
kar's  phrases,  that  of  "  a  thorny-toothed  rascal,"  it  may 
be  supposed  that  his  tragic  is  a  still  fiercer  libel  on 
humanity.  His  tragedies,  indeed,  though  not  without 
a  gloomy  power,  are  extravagant  and  horrible  in  con- 
ception and  conduct.     Even  when  he  copies,  he  makes 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  129 

the  thing  his  own  by  caricaturing  it.  Thus  the  plot 
of  Antonio's  Revenge  is  plainly  taken  from  Hamlet, 
but  it  is  Hamlet  passed  through  Marston's  intellect  and 
imagination,  and  so  debased  as  to  look  original.  Still, 
the  intellect  in  Marston's  tragedies  strikes  the  reader  as 
forcible  in  itself,  and  as  capable  of  achieving  excellence, 
if  it  could  only  be  divorced  from  the  bad  disposition  and 
deformed  conscience  which  direct  its  exercise.  He  has 
fancy,  and  he  frequently  stutters  into  imagination  ;  but 
the  imp  that  controls  his  heart  corrupts  his  taste  and 
taints  his  sense  of  beauty,  and  the  result  is  that  he  has 
a  malicious  satisfaction  in  deliberately  choosing  words 
whose  uncouthness  finds  no  extenuation  in  their  expres- 
siveness, and  in  forging  elaborate  metaphors  which  dis- 
gust rather  than  delight.  His  description  of  a  storm  at 
sea  is  among  the  least  unfavorable  specimens  of  this 
perversion  of  his  poetical  powers :  — 

"  The  sea  grew  mad; 

Strait  swarthy  darkness  popt  out  Phoebus'  eye, 
And  blurred  the  jocund  face  of  bright-cheek'd  day; 
Whilst  cruddled  fogs  masked  even  darkness'  brow ; 
Heaven  bade 's  good  night,  and  the  rocks  groaned 
At  the  intestine  uproar  of  the  main." 

It  must  be  allowed  that  both  his  tragedies  and  come- 
dies are   full   of  strong   and   striking  thoughts,  which 

6*  -  I 


130  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

show  a  searching  inquisition  into  the  worst  parts  of  hu- 
man nature.  Occasionally  he  expresses  a  general  truth 
with  great  felicity,  as  when  he  says, 

"  Pygmy  cares 
Can  shelter  under  patience'  shield;  but  giant  griefs 
Will  burst  all  covert." 

His  imagination  is  sometimes  stimulated  into  unusual 
power  in  expressing  the  fiercer  and  darker  passions ;  as, 
for  example,  in  this  image  :  — 

"  0,  my  soul 's  enthroned 
In  the  triumphant  chariot  of  revenge ! " 

And  in  this :  — 

"  Ghastly  Amazement,  with  upstarted  hair, 
Shall  hmry  on  before,  and  usher  us, 
WhOst  trumpets  clamor  with  a  sound  of  death." 

He  has  three  descriptions  of  morning,  which  seem  to 
have  been  written  in  emulation  of  Shakespeare's  in 
Hamlet ;  two  of  them  being  found  in  the  tragedy  which 
Hamlet  suggested. 

"  Is  not  yon  gleam  the  shuddering  morn  that  flakes 
With  silver  tincture  the  east  verge  of  heaven  ? 

For  see  the  dapple-gi'ay  coursers  of  the  morn 
Beat  up  the  light  with  their  bright  silver  hoofs, 
And  chase  it  tlurough  the  sky. 

Darkness  is  fled ;  look,  inftuit  moru  hath  drawn 


JIINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRASIATISTS.  131 

Bright  silver  curtains  'bout  the  couch  of  night; 
And  now  Aurora's  horse  trots  azure  rings, 
Breathing  fair  light  about  the  firmament." 

These  last  two  lines  appear  feeble  enough  as  con- 
trasted with  the  beautiful  intensity  of  imagination  in 
Emerson's  picturing  of  the  same  scene :  — 

"  0,  tenderly  the  haughty  Day 
Fills  his  blue  urn  icithjire." 

The  most  beautiful  passage  in  Marston's  plays  is  the 
lament  of  a  father  over  the  dead  body  of  his  son,  who 
has  been  defamed.  It  is  so  apart  from  his  usual  style, 
as  to  breed  the  suspicion  that  the  worthy  chaplain's 
daughter,  whom  he  made  Mrs.  ]\Iarston,  must  have 
given  it  to  him  from  her  purer  imagination  :  — 

"  Look  on  those  lips, 
Those  now  lawn  piUows,  on  whose  tender  softness 
Chaste  modest  speech,  stealing  from  out  his  breast. 
Had  wont  to  rest  itself,  as  loath  to  post 
From  out  so  fair  an  inn :  look,  look,  they  seem 
To  stir. 
And  breathe  defiance  to  black  obloquy." 

If  among  the  dramatists  of  the  period  any  person 
could  be  selected  who  in  disposition  was  the  opposite  of 
Marston,  it  would  be  Thomas  Dekkar,  —  a  man  whose 
inborn  sweetness  and  gleefulness  of  soul  carried  him 
through   vexations   and    miseries    which   would    have 


132  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

crushed  a  spirit  less  hopeful,  cheerful,  and  humane.  He 
was  probably  born  about  the  year  1575  ;  commenced 
his  career  as  player  and  playwi'ight  before  1598 ;  and 
for  forty  years  was  an  author  by  profession,  that  is,  was 
occupied  in  fighting  famine  with  his  pen.  The  first 
intelligence  we  have  of  him  is  characteristic  of  his 
whole  life.  It  is  from  Henslowe's  diary,  under  date  of 
February,  1598  :  "  Lent  unto  the  company,  to  discharge 
Mr.  Decker  out  of  the  counter  in  the  powltry,  the  sum 
of  40  shillings."  Oldys  tells  us  that  "  he  was  in  King's 
Bench  Prison  from  1G13  to  1616";  and  the  antiquary 
adds  ominously, "  how  much  longer  I  know  not."  Indeed, 
Dr.  Johnson's  celebrated  enumeration  of  the  scholar's 
experiences  would  stand  for  a  biography  of  Dekkar :  — 

"Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail." 

This  forced  familiarity  with  poverty  and  distress  does 
not  seem  to  have  imbittered  his  feelings  or  weakened 
the  force  and  elasticity  of  his  mind.  He  turned  his 
calamities  into  commodities.  If  indigence  threw  him 
into  the  society  of  the  ignorant,  the  wretched,  and  the 
depraved,  he  made  the  knowledge  of  low  life  he  thus 
obtained,  serve  his  purpose  as  dramatist  or  pamphleteer. 
Whatever  may  have  been  the  effect  of  his  vagabond 
habits  on  his  principles,  they  did  not  stain  the  sweetness 
and  purity  of  his  sentiments.     There  is  an  innocency  in 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  133 

his  very  coarseness,  and  a  brisk,  bright  good-nature 
chirps  in  his  very  scurrility.  In  the  midst  of  distresses 
of  all  kinds,  he  still  seems,  like  his  own  Fortunatus, 
"  all  felicity  up  to  the  brims  " ;  but  that  his  content  with 
Fortune  is  not  owing  to  an  unthinking  ignorance  of  her 
caprice  and  injustice  is  proved  by  the  words  he  puts  into 
her  mouth :  — 

"  This  world  is  Fortune's  ball  wherewith  she  sports. 
Sometimes  I  strike  it  up  into  the  air, 
And  then  create  I  emperors  and  kings ; 
Sometimes  I  spuni  it,  at  which  spurn  crawls  out 
The  wild  beast  multitude:  curse  on,  you  fools, 
'T  is  I  that  tumble  princes  from  their  thrones, 
And  gild  false  brows  with  glittering  diadems; 
'T  is  I  that  ti"ead  on  necks  of  conquerors. 
And  when  like  semi-gods  they  have  been  drawn 
In  ivory  chariots  to  the  Capitol, 
Circled  about  with  wonder  of  all  eyes. 
The  shouts  of  every  tongue,  love  of  all  hearts, 
Being  swoln  with  their  own  gi-eatness,  I  have  pricked 
The  bladder  of  their  pride,  and  made  them  die 
As  water-bubbles  (without  memory): 
I  tln'ust  base  cowards  into  honor's  chair. 
Whilst  the  true-spirited  soldier  stands  by 
Bareheaded,  and  all  bare,  whilst  at  his  scars 
They  scofF,  that  ne'er  durst  view  the  face  of  wars. 
I  set  an  idiot's  cap  on  virtue's  head, 
Turn  learning  out  of  doors,  clothe  wit  in  rags. 
And  paint  ten  thousand  images  of  loam 
In  gaudy  silken  colors :  on  the  backs 


134  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

Of  mi;]es  and  asses  I  make  asses  ride, 
Only  for  sport  to  see  the  apish  world 
Worship  such  beasts  with  sound  idolatry. 
This  Fortime  does,  and  when  all  this  is  done, 
She  sits  and  smiles  to  hear  some  curse  her  name, 
And  some  with  adoration  crown  her  fame." 

The  boundless  beneficence  of  Dekkar's  heart  is  spe- 
cially embodied  in  the  character  of  the  opulent  lord,  Ja- 
como  Gentili,  in  his  play  of  The  "Wonder  of  a  King- 
dom. "When  Gentili's  steward  brings  him  the  book  in 
which  the  amount  of  his  charities  is  recorded,  he  ex- 
claims impatiently  :  — 

"  Thou  vain  vainglorious  fool,  go  bum  that  book; 
No  herald  needs  to  blazon  charity's  arms. 

I  launch  not  forth  a  ship,  with  drums  and  guns 
And  trumpets,  to  proclaim  my  gallantry; 
He  that  will  read  the  wasting  of  my  gold 
Shall  find  it  wTit  in  ashes,  which  the  wind 
Will  scatter  ere  he  spells  it." 

He   will  have  neither  wife   nor  children.     "When,  he 

says, 

"  I  shall  have  one  hand  in  heaven. 
To  write  my  happiness  in  leaves  of  stars, 
A  wife  would  pluck  me  by  the  other  down. 
This  bark  has  thus  long  sailed  about  the  world, 
My  soul  the  pilot,  and  yet  never  listened 
To  such  a  mermaid's  song. 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  135 

My  heirs  shall  be  poor  children  fed  on  alms : 

Soldiers  that  want  limbs ;  scholars  poor  and  scorned ; 

And  these  will  be  a  sure  inheritance 

Not  to  decay ;  manors  and  towns  will  fall, 

Lordships  and  parks,  pastiu'es  and  woods,  be  sold; 

But  this  land  still  continues  to  the  lord : 

No  tricks  of  law  can  me  beguile  of  this. 

But  of  the  beggar's  dish,  I  shall  drink  healths 

To  last  forever;  whilst  I  live,  my  roof 

Shall  cover  naked  wretches ;  when  I  die, 

'T  is  dedicated  to  St.  Charity." 

We  should  not  do  justice  to  Dekkar's  disposition, 
even  after  these  quotations,  did  we  omit  that  enumer- 
ation of  positives  and  negatives  which,  in  his  view, 
make  up  the  character  of  the  happy  man :  — 

"  He  that  in  the  sun  is  neither  beam  nor  moat. 
He  that 's  not  mad  after  a  petticoat. 
He  for  whom  poor  men's  curses  dig  no  grave, 
He  that  is  neither  lord's  nor  lawyer's  slave, 
He  that  makes  This  his  sea  and  That  his  shore, 
He  that  in  's  cofRn  is  richer  than  before, 
He  that  counts  Youth  his  sword  and  Age  his  staff, 
He  whose  right  hand  carves  his  own  epitaph, 
He  that  upon  his  death-bed  is  a  swan, 
And  dead  no  crow,  —  he  is  a  Happy  Slan." 

As  Dekkar  wrote  under  the  constant  goad  of  neces- 
sity, he  seems  to  have  been  indifferent  to  the  require- 
ments of  art.     That  "  wet-eyed  wench,  Care,"  was  as 


136  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

absent  from  his  ink,  as  from  his  soul.  Even  his  best 
plays,  01(1  Fortunatus,  The  Wonder  of  a  Kingdom,  and 
another  whose  title  cannot  be  mentioned,  are  good  in 
particular  scenes  and  characters  rather  than  good  as 
wholes.  Occasionally,  as  in  the  character  of  Signior 
Orlando  Friscobaldo,  he  strikes  off  a  fresh,  original,  and 
masterly  creation,  consistently  sustained  throughout,  and 
charming  us  by  its  lovableness,  as  well  as  thrilling  us  by 
its  power ;  but  generally  his  sentiment  and  imagination 
break  upon  us  in  unexpected  felicities,  strangely  better 
than  what  surrounds  them.  These  have  been  culled  by 
the  affectionate  admiration  of  Lamb,  Hunt,  and  Hazlitt, 
and  made  familiar  to  all  English  readers.  To  prove 
how  much  finer,  in  its  essence,  his  genius  was  than  the 
genius  of  so  eminent  a  dramatist  as  Massinger,  we  only 
need  to  compare  Massinger's  portions  of  the  play  of  The 
Virgin  Martyr  with  Dekkar's.  The  scene  between  Doro- 
thea and  Angelo,  in  which  she  recounts  her  first  meeting 
with  him  as  a  "  sweet-faced  beggar-boy,"  and  the  scene  in 
which  Angelo  brings  to  Theophilus  the  basket  of  fruits 
and  flowers  which  Dorothea  has  plucked  in  Paradise, 
are  inexpressibly  beautiful  in  their  exquisite  subtlety 
of  imagination  and  artless  elevation  of  sentiment.  It  is 
diflicult  to  understand  how  a  writer  capable  of  such 
refinements  as  these  should  have  left  no  drama  which  is 
a  pai-t  of  the  classical  literature  of  his  country. 


MlJsOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  137 

One  of  these  scenes  —  that  between  Dorothea,  the 
Virgin  Martyr,  and  Angelo,  an  angel  who  waits  upon 
her  in  the  disguise  of  a  page  —  we  cannot  refrain  from 
quoting,  familiar  as  it  must  be  to  many  readers :  — 

"  Dor.    Jly  book  and  taper. 

"  Ang.    Here,  most  holy  mistress. 

"  Dor.    Thy  voice  sends  forth  such  music,  that  I  never 
Was  ravished  Avith  a  more  celestial  sound. 
Were  every  servant  in  the  world  like  thee, 
So  full  of  goodness,  angels  would  come  down 
To  dwell  with  us :  thy  name  is  Angelo, 
And  like  that  name  thou  art.     Get  thee  to  rest; 
Thy  youth  with  too  much  watching  is  oppressed. 

"  Ang.    No,  my  dear  lady ;  I  could  weaiy  stars, 
And  force  the  wakeful  moon  to  lose  her  eyes, 
By  my  late  watching,  but  to  wait  on  you. 
When  at  yotxr  prayers  you  kneel  before  the  altar, 
Methinks  I  'm  singing  with  some  quire  in  heaven, 
So  blest  I  hold  me  in  yom*  company. 
Therefore,  my  most  loved  mistress,  do  not  bid 
Your  boy,  so  serviceable,  to  get  hence, 
For  then  you  break  his  heart. 

"  Dor.    Be  nigh  me  still  then. 
In  golden  letters  down  I  '11  set  that  day 
Which  gave  thee  to  me.    Little  did  I  hope 
To  meet  such  worlds  of  comfort  in  thyself, 
This  little  pretty  body,  when  I,  coming 
Forth  of  the  temple,  heard  my  beggar-boy, 
My  sweet-faced,  godly  beggar  boy,  crave  an  alms, 
Which  with  ghid  hand  I  gave,  —  with  lucky  hand! 
And  when  I  tool*  thee  home,  my  most  chaste  bosom 


138  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

Methouglit  was  filled  with  no  hot  wanton  fire, 
But  with  a  holy  flame,  mounting  since  higher, 
On  wings  of  cherubim,  than  it  did  before. 

"  Ang.    Proud  am  I  that  my  lady's  modest  eye 
So  likes  so  poor  a  servant. 

"  Dor.  I  have  offered 

Handfuls  of  gold  but  to  behold  thy  parents. 
I  would  leave  kingdoms,  were  I  queen  of  some, 

To  dwell  with  thy  good  father 

Show  me  thy  parents ; 
Be  not  ashamed. 

"  Ang.  I  am  not :  I  did  never 

Know  who  mj'  mother  was ;  but  by  yon  palace, 
Filled  with  bright  heavenly  courtiers,  I  dare  assure  you. 
And  pawn  these  eyes  upon  it,  and  this  hand, 
My  father  is  in  heaven ;  and,  pretty  mistress, 
If  your  illustrious  hour-glass  spend  his  sand, 
No  worse  than  yet  it  does,  upon  my  life. 
You  and  I  both  shall  meet  my  father  there, 
And  he  shall  bid  you  welcome. 

"  Dor.  0  blessed  day ! 

We  all  long  to  be  there,  but  lose  the  way." 

But  the  passage  in  all  Dekkar's  works  which  will  be 
most  likely  to  immortalize  his  name  is  that  often-quoted 
one,  taken  from  a  play  whose  very  name  is  unmention- 
able to  prudish  ears  :  — 

"  Patience,  my  lord!  why,  't  is  the  soul  of  peace; 
Of  all  the  virtues,  't  is  nearest  kin  to  heaven ; 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods.  — "The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  Sufferer, 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  139 

A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit ; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed." 

A  more  sombre  genius  than  Dekkar,  though  a  genius 
more  than  once  associated  with  his  own  in  composition, 
was  John  Webster,  of  whose  biography  nothing  is  cer- 
tainly known,  except  that  he  was  a  member  of  the 
Merchant  Tailors'  Company.  His  works  have  been 
thrice  republished  within  thirty  years  ;  but  the  perusal 
of  the  whole  does  not  add  to  the  impression  left  on  the 
mind  by  his  two  great  tragedies.  His  comic  talent  was 
small ;  and  for  all  the  mirth  in  his  comedies  of  West- 
ward Hoe  and  Northward  Hoe  we  are  probably  in- 
debted to  his  associate,  Dekkar.  His  play  of  Appius 
and  Virginia  is  far  from  being  an  adequate  rendering  of 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  affecting  fables  that  ever 
crept  into  history.  The  Devil's  Law  Case,  a  tragi- 
comedy, has  not  sufficient  power  to  atone  for  the  want 
of  probability  in  the  plot  and  want  of  nature  in  the 
characters.  The  historical  play  of  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt 
can  only  be  fitly  described  by  using  the  favorite  word 
in  which  Ben  Jonson  was  wont  to  condense  his  critical 
opinions,  —  "  It  is  naught."  But  The  White  Devil  and 
The  Duchess  of  Malfy  are  tragedies  which  even  so  rich 
and  varied  a  literature  as  the  English  could  not  lose 
without  a  sensible  diminution  of  its  treasures. 

Webster  was  one  of  those  writers  whose  genius  con- 


140  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

sists  in  the  expression  of  special  moods,  and  who,  outside 
of  those  moods,  cannot  force  their  creative  faculties  into 
vigorous  action.  His  mind  by  instinctive  sentiment  was 
directed  to  the  contemplation  of  the  darker  aspects  of 
life.  He  brooded  over  crime  and  misery  until  his 
imagination  was  enveloped  in  their  atmosphere,  found  a 
fearful  joy  in  probing  their  sources  and  tracing  their 
consequences,  became  strangely  familiar  with  their 
physiognomy  and  psychology,  and  felt  a  shuddering 
sympathy  with  their  "  deep  groans  and  tenible  ghastly 
looks."  There  was  hardly  a  remote  corner  of  the  soul, 
which  hid  a  feeling  capable  of  giving  mental  pain, 
into  which  this  artist  in  agony  had  n-ot  curiously  peered  ; 
and  his  meditations  on  the  mysterious  disorder  pro- 
duced in  the  human  consciousness  by  the  rebound  of 
thoughtless  or  criminal  deeds  might  have  found  fit  ex- 
pression in  the  lines  of  a  great  poet  of  our  own 
times :  — 

"  Action  is  momentary,  — 
The  motion  of  a  muscle,  this  way  or  that. 
Suffering  is  long,  obscure,  and  infinite." 

With  this  proclivity  of  his  imagination,  "Webster's 
power  as  a  dramatist  consists  in  confining  the  domain 
of  his  tragedy  within  definite  limits,  in  excluding  all 
variety  of  incident  and  character  which  could  interfere 
with  his  main  design  of  awaking  terror  and  pity,  and  in 


MNOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  141 

the  intensity  with  which  he  aiTcsts,  and  the  tenacity 
with  which  he  holds  the  attention,  as  he  drags  the  mind 
along  the  pathway  which  begins  in  misfortune  or  guilt, 
and  ends  in  death.  He  is  such  a  spendthrift  of  his 
stimulants,  and  accumulates  horror  on  horror,  and  crime 
on  crime,  with  such  fatal  facility,  that  he  would 
render  the  mind  callous  to  his  terrors,  were  it  not 
that  what  is  acted  is  still  less  than  what  is  suggested, 
and  that  the  souls  of  his  characters  are  greater  than 
their  sufferings  or  more  terrible  than  their  deeds.  The 
crimes  and  the  criminals  belong  to  Italy  as  it  was  in  the 
sixteenth  century,  when  poisoning  and  assassination 
were  almost  in  the  fashion  ;  the  feelings  with  which 
they  are  regarded  are  English  ;  and  the  result  of  the 
combination  is  to  make  the  poisoners  and  assassins  more 
fiendishly  malignant  in  spirit  than  they  actually  were. 
Thus  Ferdinand,  in  the  Duchess  of  Malfy,  is  the  concep- 
tion formed  by  an  honest,  deep-thoughted  Englishman 
of  an  Italian  duke  and  politician,  who  had  been  educated 
in  those  maxims  of  policy  which  were  generalized  by 
Machiavelli.  "Webster  makes  him  a  devil,  but  a  devil 
with  a  soul  to  be  damned.  The  Duchess,  his  sister,  is 
discovered  to  be  secretly  married  to  her  steward  ;  and  in 
connection  with  his  brother,  the  Cardinal,  the  Duke  not 
only  resolves  on  her  death,  but  devises  a  series  of  pre- 
liminary mental  torments  to  madden  and  break  down  her 


142  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

proud  spirit.  The  first  is  an  exhibition  of  wax  figures, 
representing  her  husband  and  children  as  they  appeared 
in  death.  Then  comes  a  dance  of  madmen,  with  dismal 
howls  and  songs  and  speeches.  Then  a  tomb-maker 
whose  talk  is  of  the  charnel-house,  and  who  taunts  her 
with  her  mortality.  She  interrupts  his  insulting  homily 
with  the  exclamation,  "  Am  I  not  thy  Duchess  ?  " 
"  Thou  art,"  he  scornfully  replies,  "  some  great  woman 
sure,  for  riot  begins  to  sit  on  thy  forehead  (clad  in  gray 
hairs)  twenty  years  sooner  than  on  a  merry  milkmaid's. 
Thou  sleepest  worse  than  if  a  mouse  should  be  forced 
to  take  up  her  lodging  in  a  cat's  ear ;  a  little  infant  that 
breeds  its  teeth,  should  it  lie  with  thee,  would  cry  out, 
as  if  thou  wert  the  more  unquiet  bedfellow."  This 
mockery  only  brings  from  her  firm  spirit  the  proud 
assertion,  "  I  am  Duchess  of  Malfy  still."  Indeed, 
her  mind  becomes  clearer  and  calmer  as  the  tor- 
tures proceed.  At  first  she  had  imprecated  curses 
on  her  brothers,  and  cried, 

"  Plagues  that  make  lanes  tlu-ougli  lai'gest  families, 
Consume  them! " 

But  now,  when  the  executioners  appear,  when  her 
dirge  is  sung,  containing  those  tremendous  lines, 

"  Of  what  is  't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping? 
Sin  their  conception,  their  birth  weeping. 
Their  life  a  general  mist  of  error, 
Their  death  a  hideous  storm  of  terror,"  — 


MINOR   ELIZABETHAN   DRAMATISTS.  143 

when  all  that  malice  could  suggest  for  her  torment  has 
been  expended  and  the  ruffians  who  have  been  sent  to 
murder  her  approach  to  do  their  office,  her  attitude  is 
that  of  quiet  dignity,  forgetful  of  her  own  sufferings, 
solicitous  for  others.  Her  attendant,  Cariola,  screams 
out, 

"  Hence,  villains,  tjTants,  murderers,  alas ! 
What  will  you  do  with  my  lady  ?     Call  for  help. 

"  Duchess.    To  whom,  —  to  our  next  neighbors  ? 
They  are  mad  folks. 

"  Bosola.    Remove  that  noise. 

"Duchess.    Farewell,  Cai-iola. 
In  my  last  will  I  have  not  much  to  give : 
A  many  hungry  guests  have  fed  upon  me ; 
Thine  will  be  a  poor  reversion. 

"  Cariola.     I  will  die  with  her. 

"  Duchess.    1  pray  thee,  look  thou  giv'st  my  little  boy 
Some  syrup  for  his  cold,  and  let  the  girl 
Saj'  her  prayers  ere  she  sleep.    Now  what  you  please : 
Wliat  death? 

"  Bosola.    Strangling  ;  here  are  yoiu*  executioners. 

"  Duchess.    Pull,  and  pull  strongly,  for  your  able  strength 
JIust  pull  down  heaven  upon  me : 
Yet  stay,  heaven-gates  are  not  so  highly  arched 
As  princes'  palaces ;  thej'  that  enter  there 
Must  go  upon  their  knees.     Come,  violent  death. 
Serve  for  mandragora  to  make  me  sleep. 
Go,  tell  my  brothers ;  when  I  am  laid  out. 
They  then  may  feed  in  quiet." 


144  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN   DRAMATISTS. 

The  strange,  unearthly  stupor  which  precedes  the 
remorse  of  Ferdinand  for  her  murder  is  true  to  nature, 
and  especially  his  nature.  Bosola,  pointing  to  the  dead 
body  of  the  Duchess,  says, 

"  Fix  your  eye  here.    • 

"  Ferd.    Constantly. 

"  Bosola.  Do  you  not  weep  ? 

Other  sins  only  speak ;  murther  shrieks  out : 
The  element  of  water  moistens  the  earth, 
But  hlood  flies  upwards  and  bedews  the  heavens. 

"  Ferd.    Cover  her  face ;  mine  eyes  dazzle  : 
She  died  young. 

"  Bosola.  I  think  not  so ;  her  infelicity 

Seemed  to  have  years  too  many. 

"  Ferd.  Slie  and  I  were  twins : 

And  should  I  die  this  instant,  I  had  lived 
Her  time  to  a  minute." 

We  have  said  that  "Webster's  peculiarity,  is  the  te- 
nacity of  his  hold  on  the  mental  and  moral  constitution 
of  his  characters.  We  know  of  their  appetites  and  pas- 
sions only  by  the  effects  of  these  on  their  souls.  He  has 
properly  no  sensuousness.  Thus  in  The  White  Devil, 
his  other  great  tragedy,  the  events  proceed  from  the 
passion  of  Brachiano  for  Vittoria  Corombona,  —  a  pas- 
sion so  intense  as  to  lead  one  to  order  the  murder  of 
his  wife,  and  the  other  the  murder  of  her  husband.  If 
either  Fletcher  or  Ford  had  attempted  the  subject,  the 
sensual  and  emotional  motives  to  the  crime  would  have 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  145 

been  represented  with  overpowering  force,  and  expressed 
in  the  most  alluring  images,  so  that  wickedness  would 
have  been  almost  resolved  into  weakness  ;  but  "Webster 
lifts  the  wickedness  at  once  from  the  region  of  the 
senses  into  the  region  of  the  soul,  exhibits  its  results  in 
spiritual  depravity,  and  shows  the  satanic  energy  of  pur- 
pose which  may  spring  from  the  ruins  of  the  moral  will. 
There  is  nothing  lovable  in  Vittoria ;  she  seems,  indeed, 
almost  without  sensations ;  and  the  affection  between 
her  and  Brachiano  is  simply  the  magnetic  attraction 
which  one  evil  spirit  has  for  another  evil  spirit.  Fran- 
cisco, the  brother  of  Brachiano's  wife,  says  to  him  :  — 

"  Thou  hast  a  wife,  our  sister ;  would  I  had  given 
Both  her  white  hands  to  death,  bound  and  locked  fast 
In  her  last  winding-sheet,  when  I  gave  thee 
But  one." 

This  is  the  language  of  the  intensest  passion,  but  as 
applied  to  the  adulterous  lover  of  Vittoria  it  seems  little 
more  than  the  utterance  of  reasonable  regret ;  for  devil 
only  can  truly  mate  with  devil,  and  Vittoria  is  Brachi- 
ano's real  "  affinity." 

The  moral  confusion  they  produce  by  their  deeds  is 
traced  with  more  than  Webster's  usual  steadiness  of 
nerve  and  clearness  of  vision.  The  evil  they  inflict  is 
a  cause  of  evil  in  others  ;  the  passion  which  leads  to 
murder  rouses  the  fiercer  passion  which  aches  for  \en- 
7  J 


146  MINOR   ELIZABETHAN   DRAMATISTS. 

geance ;  and  at  last,  when  the  avengers  of  crime  have 
become  morally  as  bad  as  the  criminals,  they  are  all 
involved  in  a  common  destruction.  Vittoria  is  probably 
Webster's  most  powerful  delineation.  Bold,  bad,  proud, 
glittering  in  her  baleful  beauty,  strong  in  that  evil  cour- 
age which  shrinks  from  crime  as  little  as  from  danger, 
she  meets  her  murderers  with  the  same  self-reliant 
scorrt  with  which  she  met  her  judges.  "  Kill  her  attend- 
ant first,"  exclaims  one  of  them. 

"  Vittona.    You  shall  not  kill  her  first;  behold  my  breast: 
I  will  be  waited  on  in  death ;  my  sei-vant 
Shall  never  go  before  me. 

"  Gasparo.  Are  you  so  brave  ? 

"  Vittoria.     Yes,  I  shall  welcome  death, 
As  princes  do  some  great  ambassadors ; 
I  '11  meet  thy  weapon  half-way. 

"  Lodovico.  Strike,  strike, 

With  a  joint  motion. 

"  Vittoria.  'T  was  a  manly  blow; 

The  next  thou  giv'st,  murder  some  sucking  infant, 
And  then  thou  wilt  be  famous." 

Webster  tells  us,  in  the  Preface  to  The  White 
Devil,  that  he  does  not  "write  with  a  goose-quill 
winged  with  two  feathers  "  ;  and  also  hints  that  the  play 
failed  in  representation  through  its  being  acted  in  win- 
ter in  "an  open  and  black  theatre,"  and  because  it 
wanted  "  a  full  and  understanding  auditory."  "  Since 
that  time,"  he  sagely  adds,  "  I  have  noted  most  of  the 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  147 

people  that  come  to  the  playhouse  resemble  those  ig- 
norant asses  who,  visiting  stationers'  shops,  their  use  is 
not  to  inquire  for  good  books,  but  new  books."  And 
then  comes  the  ever-recurring  wail  of  the  playwright, 
Elizabethan  as  well  as  Georgian,  respecting  the  taste 
of  audiences.  "Should  a  man,"  he  says,  "  present  to 
such  an  auditory  the  most  sententious  tragedy  that  ever 
was  written,  observing  all  the  critical  laws,  as  height  of 
style  and  gravity  of  person,  enrich  it  with  the  senten- 
tious chorus,  and,  as  it  were,  enliven  death  in  the  pas- 
sionate and  weighty  Nuntius  ;  yet  after  all  this  divine 
rapture,  0  dura  messorum  ilia,  the  breath  that  comes 
from  the  uncapable  multitude  is  able  to  poison  it." 

Of  all  the  contemporaries  of  Shakespeare,  "Webster  is 
the  most  Shakespearian.  His  genius  was  not  only 
influenced  by  its  contact  with  one  side  of  Shakespeare's 
many-sided  mind,  but  the  tragedies  we  have  been  con- 
sidering abound  in  expressions  and  situations  either 
suggested  by  or  directly  copied  from  the  tragedies  of 
him  he  took  for  his  model.  Yet  he  seems  to  have  had 
no  conception  of  the  superiority  of  Shakespeare  to  all 
other  dramatists  ;  and  in  his  Preface  to  The  White 
Devil,  after  speaking  of  the  "  full  and  heightened  style 
of  Master  Chapman,  the  labored  and  understanding 
works  of  Master  Jonson,  the  no  less  worthy  composures 
of  the  both  worthily  excellent  Master  Beaumont  and 


148  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

Master  Fletcher,"  he  adds  his  approval,  "without 
wrong  last  to  be  named,"  of  "the  right  happy  and 
copious  industry  of  Master  Shakespeare,  Master  Dek- 
kar,  and  Master  Hey  wood."  This  is  not ,  half  so  felici- 
tous a  classification  as  would  be  made  by  a  critic  of  our 
century,  who  should  speak  of  the  "  right  happy  and 
copious  industry "  of  Master  Goethe,  Master  Dickens, 
and  Master  G.  P.  R.  James. 

Webster's  reference,  however,  to  "  the  full  and 
heightened  style  of  Master  Chapman  "  is  more  appro- 
priate ;  for  no  writer  of  that  age  impresses  us  more  by 
a  certain  rude  heroic  height  of  character  than  George 
Chapman.  Born  in  1559,  and  educated  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Oxford,  he  seems,  on  his  first  entrance  into 
London  life,  to  have  acquired  the  patronage  of  the 
noble,  and  the  friendship  of  all  who  valued  genius  and 
scholarship.  He  was  among  the  few  men  whom  Ben 
Jonson  said  he  loved.  His  greatest  performance,  and  it 
was  a  gigantic  one,  was  his  translation  of  Homer,  which, 
in  spite  of  obvious  faults,  excels  all  other  translations  in 
the  power  to  rouse  and  lift  and  inflame  the  mind. 
Some  eminent  painter,  we  believe  Barry,  said  that, 
when  he  went  into  the  street  after  reading  it,  men 
seemed  ten  feet  high.  Pope  averred  that  the  transla- 
tion of  the  Iliad  might  be  supposed  to  have  been  written 
by  Homer  before  he  arrived  at  years  of  discretion ;  and 


illNOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  149 

Coleridge  declares  the  version  of  the  Odyssey  to  be  as 
truly  an  original  poem  as  the  Faery  Queen.  Chapman 
himself  evidently  thought  that  he  was  the  first  transla- 
tor who  had  been  admitted  into  intimate  relations  with 
Homer's  soul,  and  who  had  caught  by  direct  contact  the 
sacred  fury  of  his  inspiration.  He  says  finely  of  those 
who  had  attempted  the  work  in  other  languages :  — 

"  Tliey  failed  to  search  his  deep  and  treasurous  heart. 
The  cause  was,  since  they  wanted  the  fit  key 
Of  Nature,  in  their  downright  strength  of  art, 
With  Poesy  to  open  Poesy." 

Chapman  was  also  a  voluminous  dramatist,  and  of  his 
many  comedies  and  tragedies  some  sixteen  were  printed. 
It  is  to  be  feared  that  the  last  twenty  years  of  his  long 
and  honorable  life  were  passed  in  a  desperate  struggle 
for  the  means  of  subsistence.  But  his  ideas  of  the 
dignity  of  his  art  were  so  inwoven  into  his  character 
that  he  probably  met  calamity  bravely.  Poesy  he  early 
professed  to  prefer  above  all  worldly  wisdom,  being 
composed,  in  his  own  words,  of  the  "  sinews  and  souls 
of  all  learning,  wisdom,  and  truth."  "  We  have  exam- 
ple sacred  enough,"  he  said,  "  that  true  Poesy's  humil- 
ity, poverty,  and  contempt  are  badges  of  divinity,  not 
vanity.  Bray  then,  and  bark  against  it,  ye  wolf-faced 
worldlings,  that  nothing  but  riches,  honors,  and  magis- 
tracy "   can    content.     "  I    (for   my    part)   shall    ever 


150  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN   DRAMATISTS. 

esteem  it  much  more  manly  and  sacred,  in  this  harmless 
and  pious  study,  to  sit  until  I  sink  into  my  grave,  than 
shine  in  your  vainglorious  bubbles  and  impieties  ;  all 
your  poor  policies,  vs^isdoms,  and  their  trappings,  at  no 
more  valuing  than  a  musty  nut."  These  sentiments 
were  probably  fresh  in  his  heart  when,  in  1634, 
friendless  and  poor,  at  the  age  of  seventy-five,  he  died. 
Anthony  "Wood  describes  him  as  "  a  person  of  most 
reverend  aspect,  religious  and  temperate  ;  qualities,"  he 
spitefully  adds,  "  rarely  meeting  in  a  poet." 

Chapman  was  a  man  with  great  elements  in  his 
nature,  which  were  so  imperfectly  harmonized  that 
what  he  was  found  but  a  stuttering  expression  in  what 
he  wrote  and  did.  There  were  gaps  in  his  mind ;  or, 
to  use  Victor  Hugo's  image,  "  his  intellect  was  a 
book  with  some  leaves  torn  out."  His  force,  great  as  it 
was,  was  that  of  an  Ajax,  rather  than  that  of  an 
Achilles.  Few  dramatists  of  the  time  aflford  nobler 
passages  of  description  and  reflection.  Few  are  wiser, 
deeper,  manlier  in  their  strain  of  thinking.  But  when 
we  turn  to  the  dramas  from  which  these  grand  things 
have  been  detached,  we  find  extravagance,  confusion, 
huge  thoughts  lying  in  helpless  heaps,  sublimity  in 
parts  conducing  to  no  general  effect  of  subhmity,  the 
movement  lagging  and  unwieldy,  and  the  plot  urged  on 
to   the    catastrophe    by    incoherent    expedients.      His 


MINOR   ELIZABETHAN   DRAMATISTS.  151 

imagination  partook  of  the  incompleteness  of  his  in- 
tellect. Strong  enough  to  clothe  the  ideas  and  emotions 
of  a  common  poet,  it  was  plainly  inadequate  to  embody 
the  vast,  half-formed  conceptions  which  gasped  for  ex- 
pression in  his  soul  in  its  moments  of  poetic  exaltation. 
Often  we  feel  his  meaning,  rather  than  apprehend  it. 
The  imagery  has  the  indefiniteness  of  distant  objects 
seen  by  moonlight.  There  are  whole  passages  in  his 
works  in  which  he  seems  engaged  in  expressing  Chap- 
man to  Chapman,  like  the  deaf  egotist  who  only  placed 
his  trumpet  to  his  ear  when  he  himself  talked. 

This  criticism  applies  more  particularly  to  his  trage- 
dies, and  to  his  expression  of  great  sentiments  and 
passions.  His  comedies,  though  over-informed  with 
thought,  reveal  him  to  us  as  a  singularly  sharp,  shrewd, 
and  somewhat  cynical  observer,  sparkling  with  worldly 
wisdom,  and  not  deficient  in  airiness  any  more  than  wit. 
Ilazlitt,  we  believe,  was  the  first  to  notice  that  Monsieur 
D'Olive,  in  the  comedy  of  that  name,  is  "  the  undoubted 
prototype  of  that  light,  flippant,  gay,  and  infinitely  de- 
lightful class  of  character,  of  the  professed  men  of  wit 
and  pleasure  about  town,  Avhich  we  have  in  such  perfec- 
tion in  Wycherley  and  Congreve,  such  as  Sparkish,  Wit- 
would,  Petulant,  &c.,  both  in  the  sentiments  and  the 
style  of  writing  "  ;  and  Tharsalio  in  The  Widow's 
Tears,   and  Ludovico  in  May-Day,  have  the  hard  im- 


152  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN   DRAMATISTS. 

pudence  and  cynical  distrust  of  virtue,  the  arrogant  and 
glorying  self-^w^righteousness,  that  distinguish  another 
class  of  characters  which  the  dramatists  of  the  age  of 
Charles  and  Anne  were  unwearied  in  providing  with 
insolence  and  repartees.  Occasionally  we  have  a  jest 
which  FalstafF  would  not  disown.  Thus  in  May-Day, 
when  Cuthbert,  a  barber,  approaches  Quintiliano,  to 
get,  if  possible,  "  certain  odd  crowns  "  the  latter  owes 
him,  Quintiliano  says,  "  I  think  thou  'rt  newly  mar- 
ried ?  "  "I  am  indeed,  sir,"  is  the  reply.  " I  thought 
so  ;  keep  on  thy  hat,  man,  't  will  be  the  less  perceived." 
Chapman,  in  his  comedies  generally,  shows  a  kind  of 
philosophical  contempt  for  woman,  as  a  frailer  and  flim- 
sier, if  fairer,  creature  than  man,  and  he  sustains  his 
bad  judgment  with  infinite  ingenuity  of  wilful  wit  and 
penetration  of  ungracious  analysis.  In  The  Widow's 
Tears  this  unpoetic  infidelity  to  the  sex  pervades  the 
whole  plot  and  sentiments,  as  well  as  gives  edge  to  many 
an  incisive  sarcasm.  "  My  sense,"  says  Tharsalio,  "  tells 
me  how  short-lived  widows'  tears  are,  that  their  weep- 
ing is  in  truth  but  laughing  under  a  mask,  that  they 
mourn  in .  their  gowns  and  laugh  in  their  sleeves  ;  all 
of  which  I  believe  as  a  Delphian  oracle,  and  am  re- 
solved to  burn  in  that  faith."  "  He,"  says  Lodovico, 
in  May-Day,  —  he  "  that  holds  religious  and  sacred 
thought  of  a  woman,  he  that  holds  so  reverent  a  respect 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  153 

to  her  that  he  will  not  touch  her  but  with  a  kist  hand 
and  a  timorous  heart,  he  that  adores  her  like  his  god- 
dess, let  him  be  sure  she  will  shun  him  like  her  slave. 
....  Whereas  nature  made  "  women  "  but  half  fools, 
we  make  'em  all  fool :  and  this  is  our  palpable  flattery 
of  them,  where  they  had  rather  have  plaia  dealing." 
In  all  Chapman's  comic  writing  there  is  something  of 
Ben  Jonson's  mental  self-assertion  and  disdainful  glee 
in  his  own  superiority  to  the  weakness  he  satirizes. 

In  passing  from  a  comedy  hke  May-Day  to  a  tragedy 
like  Bussy  D'Ambois,  we  find  some  difficulty  in  recog- 
nizing the  features  of  the  same  nature.  Bussy  D'Am- 
bois represents  a  mind  not  so  much  in  creation  as  in 
eruption,  belching  forth  smoke,  ashes,  and  stones,  no 
less  than  flame.  Pope  speaks  of  it  as  full  of  fustian ; 
but  fustian  is  rant  in  the  words  when  there  is  no  corre- 
sponding rant  in  the  soul,  whilst  Chapman's  tragedy, 
like  Marlowe's  Tamburlaine,  indicates  a  greater  swell 
in  the  thoughts  and  passions  of  his  characters  than  in 
their  expression.  The  poetry  is  to  Shakespeare's  what 
gold  ore  is  to  gold.  Veins  and  lumps  of  the  precious 
metal  gleam  on  the  eye  from  the  duller  substance  in 
which  it  is  imbedded.     Here  are  specimens  :  — 

"  Man  is  a  torch  borne  in  the  wind ;  a  dream 
But  of  a  shadow,  summed  with  all  his  substance; 
And  as  great  seamen,  using  all  their  wealth 
7* 


154  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS. 

And  skills  in  Neptune's  deep  invisible  paths, 

In  tall  ships  richly  built  and  ribbed  with  brass, 

To  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  world, 

When  they  have  done  it  (coming  near  their  haven) 

Are  fain  to  give  a  warning  piece,  and  caU 

A  poor  strayed  fisherman,  that  never  past 

His  country's  sight,  to  waft  and  guide  them  in: 

So  when  we  wander  furthest  through  the  waves 

Of  glassy  glory  and  the  gulfs  of  state, 

Topped  with  all  titles,  spreading  all  our  reaches, 

As  if  each  private  arm  would  sphere  the  earth, 

We  must  to  Virtue  for  her  guide  resort. 

Or  we  shall  shipwreck  in  our  safest  port." 

"  In  a  king 
All  places  are  contained.    His  words  and  looks 
Are  like  the  flashes  and  the  bolts  of  Jove ; 
His  deeds  inimitable,  like  the  sea 
That  shuts  still  as  it  opes,  and  leaves  no  tracks, 
Nor  prints  of  precedent  for  mean  men's  acts." 

"  His  gi-eat  heart  will  not  down:  't  is  like  the  sea, 
That  partly  by  his  own  internal  heat. 
Partly  the  stars'  daily  and  nightly  motion. 
Their  heat  and  light,  and  partly  of  the  place 
The  divers  frames,  but  chiefly  by  the  moon 
Bristled  with  surges,  never  will  be  won, 
(No,  not  when  th'  hearts  of  all  those  powers  are  burst,) 
To  make  retreat  into  his  settled  home. 
Till  he  be  crowned  with  his  own  quiet  foam." 

"  Now,  all  ye  peaceful  regents  of  the  night, 
Silently  gliding  exhalations. 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN   DRAMATISTS.  155 

Languishing  winds,  and  murmuring  falls  of  waters, 
Sadness  of  heart,  and  ominous  secureness. 
Enchantments,  dead  sleej)s,  all  the  friends  of  rest 
That  ever  -wrought  upon  the  life  of  man 
Extend  your  utmost  strengths ;  and  this  charmed  hour 
Fix  like  the  centime." 

"  There  is  One 
That  wakes  above,  -whose  eye  no  sleep  can  bind : 
He  sees  through  doors  and  darkness  and  our  thoughts." 

"  0,  the  dangerous  siege 
Sin  lays  about  us !  and  the  tyranny 
He  exercises  -when  he  hath  expugned: 
Like  to  the  horror  of  a  -winter's  thunder, 
Mixed  -with  a  gushing  storm,  that  suffer  nothing 
To  stir  abroad  on  earth  but  their  o-wn  rages, 
Is  sin,  -when  it  hath  gathered  head  above  us." 

"  Terror  of  darkness !  0  thou  king  of  flames ! 
That  -with  thy  music-footed  horse  doth  strike 
The  clear  light  out  of  crystal,  on  dark  earth, 
And  hurl'st  instinctive  fire  about  the  -world, 
Wake,  -wake,  the  di'owsy  and  enchanted  night. 
That  sleeps  with  dead  eyes  in  this  hea-vj^  riddle: 
0  thou  great  prince  of  shades,  where  never  sun 
Sticks  his  far-darted  beams,  whose  eyes  are  made 
To  shine  in  darkness,  and  see  ever  best 
Where  men  are  blmdest !  open  now  the  heart 
Of  thy  abashed  oracle,  that  for  fear 
Of  some  ill  it  includes  would  feign  lie  hid, 
And  rise  thou  with  it  in  thy  gi-eater  light." 

It  is  hardly  possible  to'  read  Chapman's  serious  verse 


156  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN   DRAMATISTS. 

without  feeling  that  he  had  in  him  the  elements  of  a 
great  nature,  and  that  he  was  a  magnificent  specimen 
of  what  is  called  "  irregular  genius."  And  one  of  his 
poems,  the  dedication  of  his  translation  of  the  Iliad  to 
Prince  Henry,  is  of  so  noble  a  strain,  and  from  so  high 
a  mood,  that,  while  borne  along  with  its  rapture,  we  are 
tempted  to  place  him  in  the  first  rank  of  poets  and  of 
men.  You  can  feel  and  hear  the  throbs  of  the  grand 
old  poet's  heart  in  such  lines  as  these  :  — 

"  0,  't  is  ■tt'on.clrous  miich, 
Tliough  nothing  prized,  that  the  right  virtuous  touch 
Of  a  well- written  soul  to  virtue  moves; 
Nor  have  we  souls  to  purpose,  if  their  loves 
Of  fitting  objects  he  not  so  inflamed. 
How  much  were  then  this  kingdom's  main  soiil  maimed, 
To  want  this  great  inflamer  of  all  powers 
That  move  in  human  souls. 

Through  all  the  pomp  of  kingdoms  still  he  shines, 
And  gi'aceth  all  his  gi-acers. 

A  prince's  statue,  or  in  marble  car\'ed, 

Or  steel,  or  gold,  and  shrined,  to  be  preserved, 

Aloft  on  pillars  and  pjTamides, 

Time  mto  lowest  ruins  may  depress ; 

But  drawn  with  all  his  virtues  in  learned  verse, 

Fame  shall  resound  them  on  oMivion's  hearse, 

Till  graves  gasp  with  their  blasts,  and  dead  men  rise." 


BEAUMOXT  AND  FLETCHER,  :MASSIN- 
GEE,  AND  FORD, 

'T'TTE  have  seen,  in  what  has  been  already  said  of 
^  *  the  intellectual  habits  of  the  Elizabethan  dram- 
atists, that  it  was  a  common  practice  for  two,  three, 
four,  and  sometimes  five  writers  to  co-operate  in  the 
production  of  one  play.  Thus  Dekkar  and  Webster 
were  partners  in  writing  Northward  Hoe  !  and  West- 
ward Hoe !  Ben  Jonson,  Marston,  and  Chapman  in 
writing  Eastward  Hoe !  Drayton,  Middleton,  Dekkar, 
Webster,  and  Munday,  in  writing  The  Two  Harpies. 
In  the  case  of  Webster  and  Dekkar,  this  union  was 
evidently  formed  from  a  mutual  belief  that  the  som- 
bre mind  of  the  one  was  unsuited  to  the  treatment 
of  certain  scenes  and  charactei's  which  were  exactly 
in  harmony  with  the  sunny  genius  of  the  other  ; 
but  the  alliance  was  often  brought  about  by  the  de- 
mand of  theatre-managers  for  a  new  play  at  a  short 
notice,  in  which  case  the  dramatist  who  had  the  job 
hurriedly  sketched  the  plan,  and  then  applied  to  his 
brother,  playwrights  to  take  shares  in  the  enterprise, 
payable   in   daily  or  weekly   instalments   of  mirth   or 


158  BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 

passion.  But  there  were  two  writers  of  the  period, 
twins  in  genius,  and  bound  together  by  more  than 
brotherly  affection,  whose  hterary  union  was  so  much 
closer  than  the  occasional  combinations  of  other  dram- 
atists, that  it  is  now  difficult  to  dissociate,  in  the  public 
mind,  Francis  Beaumont  from  John  Fletcher,  or  even 
to  change  the  order  of  their  names,  though  it  can  easily 
be  proved  that  the  firm  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  owes 
by  far  the  greater  portion  of  its  capital  to  the  teeming 
brain  of  the  second  partner. 

The  materials  for  their  biographies  are  scanty.  Beau- 
mont was  the  son  of  a  judge,  was  born  about  the  year 
158G,  resided  a  short  period  at  Oxford,  but  left  without 
taking  a  degree,  and,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  was  entered  a 
member  of  the  Inner  Temple.  Fletcher,  the  son  of 
the  "  courtly  and  comely  "  Bishop  Fletcher,  was  born 
in  December,  1579,  and  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  but 
seems  to  have  been  designed  for  no  profession.  At  what 
time  and  under  what  circumstances  the  poets  met  we 
have  no  record.  The  probability  is,  that,  as  both  were 
esteemed  by  Ben  Jonson,  it  was  he  who  brought  them 
together.  It  is  more  than  probable  that  Fletcher,  the 
elder  of  the  two,  had  written  for  the  theatres  before  his 
acquaintance  with  Beaumont  began ;  and  that  in  The 
Woraan-Hater  and  in  Thierry  and  Theodoret  he  had 
proved  his  ability  both  as  a  comic  and  as  a  tragic  dra- 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER.  159 

matist  before  Beaumont  had  thought  of  dramatic  compo- 
sition. When  they  did  meet,  they  found,  in  Aubrey's 
words,  a  "  wonderful  consimility  of  phansy  "  between 
them,  which  resulted  in  an  exceeding  "dearnesse  of 
friendship"  ;  and  the  old  antiquary  adds  :  "  They  lived 
together  on  the  Banke  side,  not  far  from  the  playhouse, 
both  bachelors,  lay  together,"  and  "  had  the  same 
cloths  and  cloak"  between  them.  Their  first  joint 
composition  was  the  tragi-comedy  of  Philaster,  pro- 
duced about  the  year  1 608  ;  and  we  may  suppose  that 
this  community  of  goods  as  well  as  thoughts  continued 
until  1613,  when  Beaumont  was  married,  and  that  the 
friendship  remained  unbroken  till  it  was  broken  in  1616 
by  Beaumont's  death.  Fletcher  lived  until  August, 
1625,  at  which  time  he  was  suddenly  cut  off  by  the 
plague,  in  his  forty-sixth  year. 

In  regard  to  the  question  as  to  Beaumont's  share  in 
the  authorshij)  of  the  fifty-two  plays  which  go  under 
the  name  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  let  us  first  quote 
the  indignant  doggerel  which  Sir  Aston  Cokaine  ad- 
dressed to  the  publisher  of  the  first  edition,  in  1647  :  — 

"  Beaumont  of  those  many  writ  in  few : 
And  Massinger  in  other  few :  the  main 
Being  sole  issues  of  sweet  Fletcher's  brain. 
But  how  came  I,  you  ask,  so  much  to  know  ? 
Fletcher's  chief  bosom-friend  iiiformed  me  so." 


160  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHEE. 

This  gives  no  information  touching  the  special  plays 
which  Beaumont  assisted  in  producing.  None  of 
them  were  published  as  joint  productions  during  his  life, 
and  only  three  during  the  nine  or  ten  years  that 
Fletcher  survived  him.  Of  the  fifty-two  dramas  in  the 
collection,  fifty  were  written  in  the  eighteen  years 
which  elapsed  between  1607  and  1625.  During  the 
first  years  of  their  partnership  neither  seemed  to  be 
dependent  on  the  stage  for  support ;  and  it  is  almost  cer- 
tain that  Beaumont's  income  continued  to  be  adequate 
to  his  wants,  and  that  his  pen  was  never  spurred  into 
action  by  poverty.  The  result  was  that  the  earlier 
dramas  were  composed  more  slowly  and  carefully  than 
the  later.  A  year  elapsed  between  the  production  of 
their  first  joint  play,  Philaster,  in  1608,  and  the  Maid's 
Tragedy,  in  1609.  In  1610  Fletcher  alone  brought  out 
The  Faithful  Shepherdess.  In  1611,  A  King  and  No 
King  and  the  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle  were  acted. 
These  five  dramas  —  one  exclusively  by  Fletcher,  the 
others  joint  productions  —  are  commonly  ranked  as 
their  best  works,  and  are  considered  to  include  all  the 
capacities  of  their  genius.  If  we  suppose  that  after 
1611  they  wrote  two  plays  a  year,  we  have  fifteen  as 
the  number  produced  up  to  the  period  of  Beaumont's 
death,  leaving  thirty -five  which  were  written  by 
Fletcher  alone  in  nine  years.     We  do  not  think  that 


BEAUMON'T   AND   FLETCHER.  161 

Beauraoat's  hand  can  be  traced  in  more  than  fifteen  of 
the  plays,  or  that  it  is  predominant  in  more  than  six. 

With  individual  differences  as  to  mind  and  tempera- 
ment, these  dramatists  had  some  general  characteristics 
in  common.  They  agreed  in  being  tainted  "with  the 
fashionable  slavishness  and  fashionable  immorality  of 
the  court  of  James.  They  believed  in  the  divine  right 
of  kings  as  piously  as  any  bishop,  and  they  violated  all 
the  decencies  of  life  as  recklessly  as  any  courtier.  The 
impurity  of  Beaumont,  however,  seems  the  result  of 
elaborate  thinking,  that  of  Fletcher  the  running  over 
of  heedless  animal  spirits.  They  agreed  also  in  certain 
leading  dramatic  conceptions  and  types  of  character; 
and  they  agreed,  in  regard  to  the  morality  of  their 
plays,  in  subordinating  their  consciences  to  their  au- 
diences. But  the  mind  of  Beaumont  was  as  slow,  solid, 
and  painstaking  as  his  associate's  was  rapid,  mercurial, 
and  inventive.  The  tradition  runs  that  his  chief  busi- 
ness was  to  correct  the  overflowings  of  Fletcher's  fancy, 
and  hold  its  volatile  creativeness  in  check.  Everybody 
of  that  age  commended  his  judgment,  and  even  Ben 
Jonson  is  said  to  have  consulted  him  in  regard  to  his 
plots.  The  plays  in  which  he  had  a  main  hand  exhibit 
a  firmer  hold  upon  character,  a  more  orderly  disposition 
of  the  incidents,  and  greater  symmetry  in  the  construc- 
tion,  than    the    others.      His  verse    is   also    simpler, 


162  BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 

sweeter,  more  voluble,  than  Fletcher's,  with  few  of  the 
latter's  double  and  triple  endings  and  harsh  pauses. 
Take,  for  example,  the  passage  in  which  Philaster  re- 
counts his  meeting  with  Bellario  :  — 

"  Hunting  the  buck, 
I  found  him  sitting  by  a  fountain's  side, 
Of  which  he  borrowed  some  to  quench  his  thirst, 
And  paid  the  nj'mph  again  as  much  in  tears. 
A  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself 
Of  many  several  flowers  bred  in  the  vale, 
Stuck  in  that  mystic  order  that  the  rareness 
Delighted  me ;  but  ever  when  he  turned 
His  tender  eyes  upon  'em  he  would  weep. 
As  if  he  meant  to  make  'em  grow  again." 

Now  contrast  this  with  a  characteristic  passage  from 
Fletcher :  — 

"  All  shall  be  right  again;  and.  as  a  pine, 
Rent  from  Oeta  by  a  sweeping  tempest. 
Jointed  again,  and  made  a  mast,  defies 
Those  raging  winds  that  split  him ;  so  will  I 
Pieced  to  my  never-failing  strength  and  fortune, 
Steer  through  these  swelling  dangers,  plough  their  prides  up. 
And  bear  like  thunder  thi-ougli  their  loudest  tempests." 

Beaumont  also,  though  his  general  temperament  was 
not  so  poetical  as  his  partner's,  had  a  vein  of  poetry 
in  him,  which  was  superior  in  quality  and  depth  to 
Fletcher's,   though   sooner   exhausted.     Beaumont,  we 


BEAUMO:ST   AND   FLETCHER.  163 

think  it  was,  who  conceived  that  beautiful  type  of 
womanhood  of  which  Bellario  in  Pliilaster,  Panthea  in 
A  King  and  No  King,  and  Viola  in  The  Coxcomb,  are 
perhaps  the  most  exquisite  embodiments,  and  which  also 
appears,  somewhat  dissolved  in  sentimentality,  in  As- 
pasia  in  The  Maid's  Tragedy.  It  is  true  that  Shake- 
speare had  already  represented  this  type  of  character 
with  even  more  force  and  purity  in  his  Viola ;  but  still 
Beaumont's  mind  appears  to  have  penetrated  to  its  ideal 
sources,  and  not  to  have  copied  from  his  greater  con- 
temporary. Beaumont  could  only  repeat  it  under  other 
names,  after  its  first  embodiment  in  Bellai-io  ;  but  it  was 
too  delicate  and  elusive  for  Fletcher  even  to  repeat,  and 
it  never  appears  in  the  dramas  he  wrote  after  Beau- 
mont's death.  Fletcher  has  given  us  many  examples 
of  womanly  virtue,  devotion,  and  heroism  ;  but  he  had  a 
bad  trick  of  disconnecting  virtue  from  modesty,  and  the 
talk  of  his  best  and  noblest  women  is  often  such  as 
would  scare  womankind  from  any  theatre  of  the  present 
day.  Beaumont  alone  could  combine  feminine  inno- 
cence with  feminine  power,  the  most  ethereal  softness 
and  sweetness  with  martyr-like  heroism,  knowledge  of 
good  with  ignorance  of  evil,  and  invest  the  whole  repre- 
sentation with  a  visionary  charm,  so  that  it  afiects  us  as 
Panthea  did  Arbaces :  — 


164  BEAUMONT  AND   FLETCHEK. 

"  She  is  not  fair 
Nor  beautiful ;  these  words  express  her  not ; 
They  say  her  loolvs  have  something  excellent, 
That  wants  a  name." 

Fletcher  could  not,  we  think,  have  written  Bellario's 
account  of  her  love  for  Philaster,  as  it  runs  in  Beau- 
mont's limpid  verse :  — 

"  My  father  oft  would  speak 
Your  worth  and  virtue ;  and  as  I  did  grow 
More  and  more  apprehensive,  I  did  thirst 
To  see  the  man  so  praised.    But  yet  all  this 
Was  but  a  maiden-longing,  to  be  lost 
As  soon  as  found ;  tUl,  sitting  in  my  window. 
Printing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I  saw  a  god, 
I  thought,  (but  it  was  you,)  enter  our  gates; 
My  blood  flew  out  and  back  again,  as  fast 
As  I  had  puffed  it  forth  and  sucked  it  in 
Like  breath ;  then  was  I  called  away  in  hasto 
To  entertain  you.    Never  was  a  man, 
Heaved  from  a  sheep-cote  to  a  sceptre,  raised 
So  high  in  thoughts  as  I.    You  left  a  kiss 
Upon  these  lips  then,  which  I  mean  to  keep 
From  you  forever;  I  did  hear  you  talk, 
Far  above  singing.    After  you  were  gone, 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  searched 
What  stiiTcd  it  so:  alas,  I  found  it  love!  " 

With  this  superior  fineness  of  perception,  Beaumont 
also  excelled  his  associate  in  solid  humor.  The  chief 
proof   of    this   is   to   be  found    in   his  delineations,  in 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER.  165 

The  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle,  of  the  London  citi- 
zen and  his  wife.  These  have  a  geniality,  richness,  and 
raciness,  a  closeness  to  nature  and  to  fact,  unexcelled  by 
any  contemporary  pictures  of  Elizabethan  manners  and 
character,  not  excepting  even  Ben  Jonson's.  A  more 
extravagant,  but  hardly  less  delicious,  example  of  Beau- 
mont's humor  is  his  character  of  Bessus,  in  A  King  and 
No  King,  —  a  braggart  whose  cowardice  is  sustained  by 
assurance  so  indomitable  gs  to  wear  the  aspect  of  cour- 
age ;  one  who  is  too  base  to  feel  insult,  who  cannot  be 
kicked  out  of  his  chirping  self-esteem,  but  presents  as 
cheerful  a  countenance  to  infamy  as  to  honor. 

After,  however,  awarding  to  Beaumont  all  that  he  can 
properly  claim,  he  must  still  be  placed  below  Fletcher, 
not  merely  in  fertility,  but  in  force  and  variety  of  genius. 
Of  Fletcher,  indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  convey  an  adequate 
idea,  without  running  into  some  of  his  own  extrava- 
gance, and  without  quoting  passages  which  would  shock 
all  modern  notions  of  decency.  He  most  assuredly  was 
not  a  great  man  nor  a  great  poet.  He  lacked  serious- 
ness, depth,  purpose,  principle,  imaginative  closeness  of 
conception,  imaginative  condensation  of  expression.  He 
saw  everything  at  one  remove  from  its  soul  and  essence, 
and  must  be  ranked  with  poets  of  the  second  class. 
But  no  other  poet  ever  had  such  furious  animal  spirits, 
a  keener  sense  of  enjoyment,  a  more  perfect  abandon- 


166  BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 

ment  to  whatever  was  uppermost  in  his  mind  at  the  mo- 
ment. There  was  no  conscience  in  his  rakish  and  disso- 
lute nature.  Nothing  in  him  —  wit,  humor,  fancy,  appe- 
tite, sentiment,  passion,  knowledge  of  life,  knowledge  of 
books,  all  his  good  and  all  his  bad  thoughts  —  met  any 
impediment  of  taste  or  principle  when  rushing  into  ex- 
pression. His  eyes  flash,  his  cheeks  glow,  as  he  writes ; 
his  air  is  hurried  and  eager ;  the  blood  that  tingles  and 
throbs  in  his  veins  flushes  his  words  ;  and  will  and  judg- 
ment, taken  captive,  follow  with  reluctant  steps  and  half- 
averted  faces  the  perilous  lead  of  the  passions  they 
should  direct.  As  there  was  no  reserve  in  him,  there 
was  no  reserved  power.  Rich  as  were  the  elements 
of  his  nature,  they  were  never  thoroughly  organized  in 
intellectual  character ;  and  as  no  presiding  personality 
regulated  the  activity  of  his  mind,  he  seems  hardly  to 
be  morally  responsible  for  the  excesses  into  which  he 
was  impelled.  Composition,  indeed,  sets  his  brain  in  a 
whirl.  He  sometimes  writes  as  if  inspired  by  a  satyr ; 
he  sometimes  writes  as  if  inspired  by  a  seraph  ;  but 
neither  satyr  nor  seraph  had  any  hold  on  his  individual- 
ity, and  neither  could  put  fetters  on  his  caprice.  There 
is  the  same  gusto  in  his  indecencies  as  in  his  refine- 
ments. Though  an  Englishman,  he  has  no  morality, 
except  that  morality  which  is  connected  with  generous 
instincts,  or  which  is  awakened  by  the  sense  of  beauty. 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER.  167 

Though  the  son  of  a  bishop,  he  had  no  religion,  except 
that  rehgion  which  consists  in  an  alternate  worship  of 
Venus,  Bacchus,  and  Mars.  An  incurable  mental  and 
moral  levity  is  the  characteristic  of  his  writings,  —  a 
levity  which  has  its  source  in  an  intoxication  of  the 
soul  through  an  excess  of  feeling  and  sensation,  and 
which  is  moral  or  immoral,  sentimental  or  sensual,  ac- 
cording to  the  impulse  or  temptation  of  the  moment. 

This  giddiness  of  soul,  in  which  decorum  is  ignored 
rather  than  denied,  is  most  brilliantly  and  buoyantly 
exhibited  in  his  comedies.  In  The  Chances,  The  Span- 
ish Curate,  The  Custom  of  the  Country,  Rule  a  Wife 
and  have  a  Wife,  The  Wild-Goose  Chase,  and  especially 
in  Monsieur  Thomas  and  The  Little  French  Lawyer, 
we  see  the  comic  muse  emancipated  from  all  restraint, 
—  loose,  free-spoken,  sportive,  sparkling,  indeed  almost 
madly  merry.  It  is  not  so  much  any  quotable  speci- 
mens of  wit  and  humor  as  it  is  the  all-animating  spirit 
of  frolic  and  mischief,  which  gives  to  these  comedies 
their  droll,  equivocal  power  to  please.  In  Fletcher's 
serious  plays  the  same  levity  is  displayed  in  pushing 
sentiment  and  passion  altogether  beyond  the  bounds  of 
character  ;  and  the  volatile  fancy  which,  in  his  comedy, 
riots  in  fun,  in  his  tragedy  riots  in  blood.  What  lifts 
both  into  a  poetic  region  is  the  tone  of  romantic  heroism 
by  which  they  are  almost  equally  characterized.     His 


168  BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 

coxcombs  and  profligates,  as  well  as  his  conquerors  and 
heroes,  are  all  intrepid.  They  do  not  rate  their  lives  at 
a  pin's  fee,  —  the  first  in  comparison  with  the  gratifica- 
tion of  a  passing  desire  or  caprice ;  the  second,  in  com- 
parison with  glory  and  honor.  The  peculiar  life,  in- 
deed, of  Fletcher's  characters  consists  in  their  being 
careless  of  life.  "Wholly  absorbed  in  the  feeling  or 
object  of  the  instant,  their  action  is  ecstatic  action,  and 
flashes  on  us  in  a  succession  of  poetic  surprises.  This 
is  the  great  charm  of  Fletcher's  plays  ;  this  gilds  their 
grossness,  and  has  kept  them  alive.  You  find  it  in  his 
Monsieur  Thomas  as  well  as  in  his  delineation  of  Coesar. 
All  the  comic  characters  profess  a  sportive  contempt  for 
consequences,  and  startle  us  with  unexpected  audacities. 
Fear  of  disease,  danger,  or  death  never  dissuades  them 
from  the  rollicking  action  or  expression  of  eccentricity 
and  vice.  Their  concern  is  only  for  the  free,  wild,  reck- 
less whim  of  the  moment.  Thus,  in  the  play  of  The 
Sea  Voyage,  Julietta,  enraged  at  the  jeers  of  Tibalt  and 
the  master  of  the  ship,  exclaims :  — 

"  Why,  slaves,  't  is  in  our  power  to  hang  ye !  " 

"  Very  likely,"  retorts  the  jovial  Master,  — 

"  'T  is  in  our  powers  then  to  be  hanged,  and  scorn  ye !  " 

This  heroism  of  the  blood,  when  it  passes  from  an 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER.  169 

instinct  into  some  semblance  of  a  principle,  adopts  the 
chivalrous  guise  of  honor.  Honor,  in  Fletcher's  ethical 
code,  is  the  only  possible  and  admissible  restraint  on 
appetite  and  passion.  Thus  in  the  drama  of  The  Cap- 
tain, Julio,  infatuated  with  the  wicked  Lelia,  thinks  of 
marrying  her,  and  confesses  to  his  friend  Angelo  that 
her  bewitching  and  bewildering  beauty  has  entirely 
mastered  him.     "When  she  speaks,  he  says  :  — 

"  Then  music 
(Such  as  old  Orpheus  made,  that  gave  a  soul 
To  aged  mountains,  and  made  rugged  beasts 
Lay  by  their  rages ;  and  tall  trees,  that  knew 
No  sound  but  tempests,  to  bow  down  their  branches, 
And  hear,  and  wonder;  and  the  sea,  whose  surges 
Shook  their  white  heads  in  heaven,  to  be  as  midnight 
StiU  and  attentive)  steals  into  our  souls 
So  suddenly  and  sti-angely,  that  we  are 
From  that  time  no  more  ours,  but  what  she  pleases !  " 

Angelo  admits  the  temptation,  says  he  would  be  will- 
ing himself  to  sacrifice  all  his  possessions,  even  his  soul, 
to  obtain  her,  but  then  adds  :  — 

"  Yet  methinks  we  should  not  dole  away 
That  that  is  something  more  than  ours,  our  honors ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  many  her  by  no  means." 

Again :  Curio,  in  Love's  Cure,  when  threatened  by 
his  mistress  with  the  loss  of  her  affection  if  he  fights 
with  her  brother,  replies  that  he  would  willingly  give 


170  BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 

his  life,  "  rip  every  vein,"  to  please  her,  yet  still  insists 
on  his  purpose. 

"  Life  is  but  a  word,  a  shadow,  a  melting  dream. 
Compared  with  essential  and  eternal  honor." 

In  the  plays  of  The  Mad  Lover,  The  Loyal  Subject, 
Bonduca,  and  The  False  One,  Fletcher  attempts  to  por- 
tray this  heroic  elenaent,  not  as  a  mere  flash  of  cour- 
ageous inspiration,  but  as  a  solid  element  of  character. 
He  strains  his  mind  to  the  utmost,  but  the  strain  is  too 
apparent.  There  is  no  calm,  strong  grasp  of  the  theme. 
His  heroes  are  generally  too  fond  of  vaunting  them- 
selves, too  declamatory,  too  screechy,  too  much  like 
embodied  speeches.  In  his  own  words,  they  carry  "  a 
drum  in  their  mouths " ;  and  what  they  say  of  them- 
selves would  more  properly  and  naturally  come  from 
others.  Thus  Memnon,  in  The  Mad  Lover,  tells  his 
prince,  in  apology  for  his  roughness  of  behavior :  — 

"  I  know  no  court  but  martial. 
No  oily  language  but  the  shock  of  arms, 
No  dalliance  but  with  death,  no  lofty  measures 
But  weary  and  sad  marches,  cold  and  hunger, 
'Lamms  at  midnight  Valor's  self  would  shake  at ; 
Yet  I  ne'er  shrunk.    Balls  of  consuming  wildfire, 
That  licked  men  up  like  lightning,  have  I  laughed  at, 
And  tossed  'em  back  again,  like  children's  trifles. 
Upon  the  edges  of  my  enemies'  swords 
I  have  marched  like  whirlwinds,  Fury  at  this  hand  waiting, 


BEAUiMONT   AND   FLETCHER.  171 

Death  at  my  right,  Fortune  my  forlorn  hope : 
When  I  have  grappled  with  Destruction, 
And  tugged  with  pale-faced  Ruin,  Night  and  Mischief 
Frighted  to  see  a  new  day  break  in  blood." 

This  is  talk  on  stilts  ;  but  it  is  still  resounding  talk, 
full  of  ardor  and  the  impatient  consciousness  of  personal 
prowess.  In  the  characterization  of  Caesar  in  The 
False  One,  the  same  feeling  of  individual  supremacy 
is  combined  with  a  haughtier  self-possession,  as  befits 
a  mightier  and  more  imperial  soul.  "We  feel,  through- 
out this  play,  that  there  is  power  in  the  mere  presence 
of  Csesar,  and  that  his  words  derive  their  force  from  his 
character.  The  very  niinds  and  hearts  of  the  Egyp- 
tians crouch  before  him.  He  sways  by  disdaining  them  ; 
even  his  clemency  is  allied  to  scorn.  "  You  have 
found,"  he  says,  — 

"  You  have  found  me  merciful  in  arguing  with  ye ; 
Swords,  hungers,  fires,  destruction  of  all  natures, 
Demolishment  of  kingdoms,  and  whole  ruins, 
Are  wont  to  be  my  orators." 

"When  they  bring  him  the  head  of  Pompey,  whom 
they  have  slain  for  the  purpose  of  propitiating  hira,  his 
contempt  for  them  breaks  out  in  a  noble  ti'ibute  to  his 
great  enemy. 

"  Egyptians,  dare  ye  think  your  liighest  pjTamids, 
Built  to  out-dure  the  sun,  as  you  suppose. 


172  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

Where  yoi:r  unworthy  kings  lie  raked  in  ashes, 
Are  monuments  fit  for  him  ?    No,  brood  of  Nilus, 
Nothing  can  cover  his  high  fame  but  heaven, 
No  pyramids  set  off  his  memories. 
But  the  eternal  substance  of  his  greatness ; 
To  ■which  I  leave  him." 

"When  he  is  besieged  in  the  palace  by  the  whole 
Egyptian  army,  he  prepares,  with  his  few  followers,  to 
cut  his  way  to  his  ships.  Septimius,  a  wretch  who  has 
been  false  to  all  parties,  offers  to  show  him  safe  means 
both  of  vengeance  and  escape.  Caesar's  reply  is  one 
of  the  finest  things  in  Fletcher. 

"  Caesar  scorns 
To  find  his  safety  or  revenge  his  wrongs 
So  base  a  way,  or  owe  the  means  of  life 
To  such  a  leprous  ti'aitor !    I  have  towered 
For  victory  like  a  falcon  in  the  clouds, 
Not  digged  for 't  like  a  mole.     Our  swords  and  cause 
Make  way  for  us :  and  that  it  may  appear 
We  took  a  noble  course,  and  hate  base  treason, 
Some  soldiers  that  would  merit  Csesar's  favor 
Hang  him  on  yonder  turret,  and  then  follow 
The  lane  this  sword  makes  for  you." 

But  perhaps  the  play  in  which  the  heroic  and  martial 
spirit  is  most  dominant  is  the  tragedy  of  Bonduca  ;  and 
the  address  of  Suetonius,  the  Roman  general,  to  his 
troops,  as  they  prepare  to  close  in  battle  with  the  Brit- 
ons, is  in  Fletcher's  noblest  vein  of  manliness  and  imagi- 
nation. 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER.  173 

"  And,  gentlemen,  to  you  now: 
To  bid  you  fight  is  needless;  ye  are  Romans, 
The  name  will  fight  itself. 

Go  on  in  full  assurance :  draw  your  swords 

As  daring  and  as  confident  as  justice ; 

The  gods  of  Rome  fight  for  ye ;  loud  Fame  calls  ye, 

Pitched  on  the  topless  Apennine,  and  blows 

To  all  the  under-world,  all  nations,  the  seas, 

And  unfrequented  deserts  where  the  snow  dwells ; 

Wakens  the  ruined  monuments ;  and  there, 

Where  nothing  but  eternal  death  and  sleep  is. 

Informs  again  the  dead  bones  with  your  virtues. 

Go  on,  I  say ;  valiant  and  wise  rule  heaven. 

And  all  the  great  aspects  attend  'em.    Do  but  blow 

Upon  this  enemy,  who,  but  that  we  want  foes. 

Cannot  deserve  that  name ;  and  like  a  mist, 

A  lazy  fog,  before  your  burning  valors 

You  '11  find  him  fly  to  nothing.     This  is  all. 

We  have  swords,  and  are  the  sons  of  ancient  Romans, 

Heirs  to  their  endless  valors :  fight  and  conquer !  " 

The  maxim  here  laid  down,  that  "  Valiant  and  wise 
rule  heaven,"  is  much  better,  or  worse,  than  Napoleon's, 
that  "  Providence  is  always  on  the  side  of  the  heaviest 
battalions." 

It  might  be  supposed  that  the  extreme  susceptibility  of 
Fletcher  —  the  openness  of  his  nature  to  all  impressions, 
ludicrous,  romantic,  heroic,  or  indecent — would  have 
made  him  a  great  delineator  of  the  varieties  of  Ufe  and 
character.     But  the  truth  is,  it  made  him  versatile  with- 


174:  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

out  making  him  universal.  He  wrote  a  greater  num- 
ber of  plays  than  Shakespeare,  and  he  has  between  five 
and  six  hundred  names  of  characters ;  but  two  or  three 
plays  of  Shakespeare  cover  a  wider  extent  of  human 
life  than  all  of  Fletcher's.  To  compare  them  is  like 
comparing  a  planet  with  a  comet,  —  a  comet  whose 
nucleus  is  only  a  few  hundred  miles  in  diameter,  though 
its  nebulous  appendage  flames  millions  of  leagues  be- 
hind. Fletcher's  susceptibility  to  the  surfaces  of  things 
was  almost  unlimited ;  his  vital  sympathy  and  inward 
vision  were  confined  to  a  few  kinds  of  character  and  a 
few  aspects  of  life.  His  variety  is  not  variety  of  char- 
acter, but  variety  of  incident  and  circumstance.  He 
contrives  rather  than  creates  ;  and  his  contrivances, 
ingenious  and  exhilarating  as  they  are,  cannot  hide  his 
constant  repetition  of  a  few  types  of  human  nature. 
These  types  he  conceived  by  a  process  essentially  differ- 
ent from  Shakespeare's.  Shakespeare  individuaUzed 
classes  ;  Fletcher  generalized  individuals.  One  of 
Shakespeare's  characters  includes  a  whole  body  of  per- 
sons ;  one  of  Fletcher's  is  simply  an  idealized  individ- 
ual, and  that  often  an  exceptional  individual.  This 
individual,  repeated  in  play  after  play,  never  covers  so 
large  a  portion  of  humanity  as  Shakespeare's  individual- 
ized  class,  which  he  disdains  to  repeat.  But,  more  than 
this,  the  very  faculties  of  Fletcher,  —  his  wit,  humor. 


BEAUMONT   AND  FLETCHER.  175' 

understanding,  fancy,  imagination,  —  though  we  call 
them  by  the  same  words  we  use  in  naming  Shake- 
speare's, differ  from  Shakespeare's  both  in  kind  and 
degree.  Shakespeare  was  a  great  and  comprehensive 
man,  whose  faculties  all  partook  of  his  general  greatness. 
The  man  Fletcher  was  so  much  smaller  and  narrower, 
and  the  materials  on  which  his  faculties  worked  so  much 
more  limited,  that  we  are  fooled  by  words  if,  following 
the  example  of  his  contemporaries,  we  place  any  one 
of  his  qualities  or  faculties  above  or  on  a  level  with 
Shakespeare's. 

Keeping,  then,  in  view  the  fact  that  the  man  is  the 
measure  of  the  poet,  let  us  glance  for  a  moment  at 
Fletcher's  poetic  faculty  as  distinguished  from  his  dra- 
matic. 

As  a  poet  he  is  best  judged,  perhaps,  by  his  pastoral 
tragi-comedy  of  The  Faithful  Shepherdess,  the  most 
elaborate  and  one  of  the  earliest  of  his  works.  It 
failed  on  the  stage,  being,  in  his  own  phrase,  "  hissed  to 
ashes  " ;  but  the  merits  which  the  many-headed  mon- 
ster of  the  pit  could  not  discern  so  enchanted  Milton 
that  they  were  vividly  in  his  memory  when  he  wrote 
Comus.  The  melody,  the  romantic  sweetness  of  fan- 
cy, the  luxuriant  and  luxurious  descriptions  of  nature, 
and  the  true  lyric  inspiration,  of  large  portions  of  this 
drama,  are  not  more  striking  than  the  deliberate  desecra- 


176  BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 

tion  of  its  beauty  by  the  introduction  of  impure  sentir 
ments  and  images.  The  hoof-prints  of  unclean  beasts 
are  visible  all  over  Fletcher's  pastoral  paradise  ;  and 
they  are  there  by  design.  Why  they  are  there  is  a 
question  which  can  be  answered  only  by  pointing  out 
the  primal  defect  of  Fletcher's  mind,  which  was  an 
incapacity  to  conceive  or  represent  goodness  and  inno- 
cence except  as  the  ideal  opposites  of  evil  and  depravity. 
He  took  depravity  as  the  positive  fact  of  life,  and  then 
framed  from  fancy  a  kind  of  goodness  out  of  its  nega- 
tion. The  result  is,  that,  in  the  case  of  The  Faithful 
Shepherdess,  Chloe  and  the  Sullen  Shepherd,  the  de- 
praved characters  of  the  play,  are  the  most  natural  and 
lifelike,  while  there  is  a  sickliness  and  unreality  in  the 
very  virtue  of  Amoret.  It  is  not,  therefore,  as  some 
critics  suppose,  the  mere  admission  of  vicious  charac- 
ters into  the  play  that  gives  it  its  taint.  Milton,  whose 
conceptions  both  of  good  and  evil  were  positive,  and  who 
represented  them  in  their  right  spiritual  relations,  en- 
tirely avoided  this  error  in  Comus,  while  he  availed 
himself  of  much  in  The  Faithful  Shepherdess  that  is 
excellent.  In  Comus  it  is  virtue  which  seems  most  real 
and  permanent,  and  the  vice  and  wickedness  represented 
in  it  do  not  mar  the  general  impression  of  moral  beauty 
left  by  the  whole  poem.  But  Fletcher,  having  no  posi- 
tive imaginative  conception  of  the  good,  and  feeling  for 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER.  177 

depravity  neither  mental  nor  moral  disgust,  reverses 
this  order.  His  vice  is  robust  and  pi'ominent ;  his  vir- 
tue is  vague,  characterless,  and  fantastic ;  and  though  his 
play  has  a  formal  moral,  it  has  an  essential  impurity. 
But,  if  the  general  effect  of  the  pastoral  is  not  beauti- 
ful, none  can  deny  its  beauty  in  parts,  especially  in  the 
lyrical  portions.  What  Milton  condescended  to  copy 
everybody  must  be  delighted  to  applaud.  But  not 
merely  in  The  Faithful  Shepherdess  is  this  lyric  genius 
displayed.  Scattered  all  over  his  plays  are  exquisite 
songs  and  short  poems,  representing  almost  every  vari- 
ety of  the  poet's  mood,  and  each  perfect  of  its  kind. 
As  an  example  of  the  softness,  sweetness,  and  melody 
of  these  we  will  quote  the  hymn  to  Venus  from  The 
Mad  Lover  :  — 

"  0  divinest  star  of  heaven, 

Thou,  in  power  above  the  seven ; 

Thou,  sweet  kindler  of  desires, 

Till  they  grow  to  mutual  fires; 

Thou,  0  gentle  queen,  that  art 

Curer  of  each  wounded  heart ; 

Thou,  the  fuel  and  the  flame ; 

Thou,  in  heaven,  here,  the  same ; 

Thou,  the  wooer  and  the  wooed; 

Thou,  the  hunger  and  the  food ; 

Thoix,  the  prayer  and  the  prayed ; 

Thou,  what  is  or  shall  be  said ; 

Thou,  stiU  young  and  golden  tressed, 

Make  me  by  thy  answer  blessed !  " 

8*  L 


178  MASSINGER. 

Fletcher  died  in  1625,  and  the  dramatist  who  suc- 
ceeded him  in  popular  esteem  was  a  less  fiery  and 
ebullient  spirit,  Philip  Massinger.  Massinger,  the 
son  of  a  gentleman  in  the  service  of  the  Earl  of  Pem- 
broke, was  born  in  1584,  was  educated  at  Oxford,  left 
the  University  without  taking  a  degree,  and  about  the 
year  1606  went  to  London  to  seek  his  fortune  as  a 
di-amatist.  Here  he  worked  obscurely  for  some  sixteen 
years  ;  the  only  thing  we  know  about  him  being  this, 
that  in  1614,  in  connection  with  Field  and  Daborne,  he 
was  a  suppliant  to  old  Manager  Henslowe  for  five 
pounds  to  relieve  him  and  them  from  the  most  pinching 
pecuniary  distress.  In  1622  The  Virgin  Martyr,  a  play 
written  in  connection  with  Dekkar,  was  published,  and 
from  this  period  to  his  death,  in  1640,  his  most  cele- 
brated dramas  were  produced.  He  wrote  thirty-seven 
plays,  twenty  of  which  have  perished.  Eleven  of  them, 
in  manuscript,  were  in  the  possession  of  a  Mr.  Warbur- 
ton,  whose  cook,  desirous  of  saving  what  she  considered 
better  paper,  used  them  in  the  kindling  of  fires  and  the 
basting  of  turkeys,  and  would  doubtless  have  treated 
the  manuscript  of  the  Faery  Queene  and  the  Novum 
Organum  in  the  same  way  had  Providence  seen  fit  to 
commit  them  to  her  master's  custody. 

Massinger's  life  seems  to  have  been  one  long  struggle 
with  want.     The  price  for  a  play  in  his  time  ranged 


iMASSlNGER.  179 

from  ten  to  twenty  pounds  ;  if  published,  the  copyright 
brought  from  six  to  ten  pounds  more ;  and  the  dedication 
fee  was  forty  shillings.  The  income  of  a  successful  dram- 
atist, who  wrote  two  or  three  plays  a  year,  was  about 
fifty  pounds,  equivalent  to  some  twelve  hundred  dollars 
at  the  present  time.  But  it  is  doubtful  if  even  Fletcher 
could  count  on  so  large  an  income  as  this,  as  some  of 
his  plays  failed  in  representation,  great  master  of  the- 
atrical effect  as  he  undoubtedly  was.  Massinger  was 
always  poor,  and,  by  his  own  admission  in  one  of  his 
dedications,  depended  at  times  on  the  casual  charity  of 
patrons.  When  poverty  was  not  present,  it  seems  to 
have  been  always  in  prospect.  He  had  a  morbid  vision 
of  approaching  calamities,  as  — 

"  Creeping  billows 
Not  got  to  shore  yet." 

It  is  difficult  to  determine  how  far  his  popular  principles 
in  politics  interfered  with  his  success  at  the  theatre. 
Fletcher's  slavish  political  doctrines  were  perfectly 
suited  to  the  court  of  James  and  Charles.  We  are, 
says  one  of  his  characters,  — 

"  Wo  arc  but  subjects,  Maximus.    Obedience 
To  what  is  done,  and  grief  for  what  is  ill  done, 
Is  all  we  can  call  ours." 

Massmger,  on  the  contrary,  was  as  strong  a  Liberal 


180  MASSINGER. 

as  Hampden  or  Pym.  The  political  and  social  abuses 
of  his  time  found  in  him  an  uncompromising  satirist. 
Oppression  in  every  form,  whether  of  the  poor  by  the 
rich,  or  the  subject  by  the  king,  provoked  his  amiable 
nature  into  unwonted  passion.  In  his  plays  he  fre- 
quently violates  the  keeping  of  character  in  order  to  in- 
trude his  own  manly  political  sentiments  and  ideas. 
There  are  allusions  in  his  dramas  which,  if  they  were 
taken  by  the  audience,  must  have  raised  a  storm  of  min- 
gled applause  and  hisses.  Though  more  liberty  seems 
to  have  been  allowed  to  playwrights  than  to  members 
of  Parliament,  Massinger  sometimes  found  it  difficult  to 
get  his  plays  licensed.  In  1G31  the  Master  of  the 
Revels  refused  to  license  one  of  his  pieces,  on  the 
ground  that  it  contained  "  dangerous  matter "  ;  and 
the  dramatist  had  to  pay  the  fee,  while  he  lost  all  the 
results  of  his  labor.  In  1G38,  in  the  height  of  the  dis- 
pute about  ship-money,  he  wrote  a  drama,  now  lost, 
called  The  King  and  the  Subject.  On  looking  it  over, 
the  Master  of  the  Revels  was  startled  at  coming  upon 
the  following  passage  :  — 

"  Moneys?  we  '11  raise  supplies  which  way  we  please, 
And  force  you  to  subscribe  to  blanks,  in  which 
We  '11  mulct  you  as  we  shall  think  fit.    The  Caesars 
Li  Rome  were  wise,  acknowledging  no  laws 
But  what  their  swords  did  ratify ;  the  wives 
And  daughters  of  the  senators  bowing  to 
Their  wills  as  deities." 


MASSINGER.  181 

The  play  was  shown  to  King  Charles,  and  he,  mark- 
ing the  obnoxious  passage,  wrote  with  his  own  hand  : 
"  This  is  too  insolent,  and  to  be  changed."  It  is,  how- 
ever, to  be  mentioned  to  his  honor,  that  he  allowed  the 
piece  to  be  acted  after  the  daring  lines  had  been  ex- 
pmigcd. 

Massinger's  spirit,  though  sufBciently  independent  and 
self-respectful,  was  as  modest  as  Addison's.  He  chid 
his  friends  when  they  placed  him  as  a  dramatist  by  the 
side  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  All  the  commendatory 
poems  prefixed  to  his  plays  evince  affection  for  the  man 
as  well  as  admiration  for  the  genius.  But  there  is  a 
strange  absence  of  distinct  memorials  of  his  career  ;  and 
his  death  and  burial  were  in  harmony  with  the  loneli- 
ness of  his  life.  We  are  told  that,  on  the  IGth  of  March, 
1G40,  he  went  to  bed,  seemingly  in  good  health,  and  was 
found  dead  in  the  morning.  In  the  parish  register  of  the 
Church  of  St.  Saviour's,  imder  the  date  of  March  20,  we 
read  :  "  Buried,  Philip  Massinger,  a  stranger."  No 
stone  indicates  where  in  the  churchyard  he  was  laid. 
"  His  sepulchre,"  says  Hartley  Coleridge,  "  was  like 
his  life,  obscure  ;  like  the  nightingale  he  sung  darkling, 
—  it  is  to  be  feared  like  the  nightingale  of  the  fable, 
with  his  breast  against  a  thorn." 

Massinger  possessed  a  large  though  not  especially 
poetic  mind,  and  a  temperament  equable   rather  than 


182  MASSINGER. 

energetic.  He  lacked  strong  passions,  vfvid  conceptions, 
creative  imagination.  In  reading  him  we  feel  that  the 
exulting,  vigorous  life  of  the  drama  of  the  age  has 
begun  to  decay.  But  though  he  has  been  excelled  by 
obscurer  writers  in  special  qualities  of  genius,  he  still 
attaches  us  by  the  harmony  of  his  powers,  and  the  uni- 
formity of  his  excellence.  The  plot,  style,  and  char- 
acters of  one  of  his  dramas  all  conduce  to  a  common 
interest.  His  plays,  indeed,  are  novels  in  dialogue. 
They  rarely  thrill,  stai-tle,  or  kindle  us,  but,  as  Lamb 
says,  "  are  read  with  composure  and  placid  delight." 
The  Bondman,  The  Picture,  The  Bashful  Lover,  The 
Renegado,  A  Very  Woman,  The  Emperor  of  the  East, 
interest  us  specially  as  stories.  The  Duke  of  Milan, 
The  Unnatural  Combat,  and  The  Fatal  Dowry  are  his 
nearest  approaches  to  the  representation  of  passion,  as 
distinguished  from  its  description.  The  leading  charac- 
ters in  The  City  Madam  and  A  New  Way  to  pay  Old 
Debts  are  delineated  with  more  than  common  power, 
for  they  are  embodiments  of  the  author's  hatred  as 
well  as  of  his  genius.  Massinger's  life  was  such  as  to 
make  him  look  with  little  favor  on  the  creditor  portion  of 
the  British  people ;  and  when  creditors  were  also  op- 
pressors, he  was  roused  to  a  pitch  of  indignation  which  in- 
spired his  conceptions  of  Luke  and  Sir  Giles  Overreach. 
Massinger's  style,  though  it  does  not  evince  a  single 


MASSINGER.  183 

great  quality  of  the  poet,  has  always  charmed  English 
readers  by  its  dignity,  flexibility,  elegance,  clearness, 
and  ease.  His  metre  and  rhythm  Coleridge  pronounces 
incomparably  good.  Still  his  verse,  with  all  its  merits, 
is  smooth  rather  than  melodious  ;  the  thoughts  are  not 
born  in  music,  but  mechanically  set  to  a  tune  ;  and  even 
its  majestic  flow  is  frequently  purchased  at  the  expense 
of  dramatic  closeness  to  character  and  passion. 

Though  there  is  nothing  in  Massinger's  plays,  as 
there  is  in  Fletcher's,  indicating  profligacy  of  mind  and 
morals,  they  are  even  coarser  in  scenes  ;  for  as  Massin- 
ger  had  none  of  Fletcher's  wit  and  humor,  he  made  his 
low  and  inferior  characters,  whether  men  or  women, 
little  better  than  beasts.  As  even  his  serious  personages 
use  words  and  allusions  which  are  now  banished  from 
all  respectable  books,  we  must  suppose  that  decorum,  as 
we  understand  it,  was  almost  unknown  in  the  time  of 
James  and  Charles.  Thus  The  Guardian,  one  of  the 
most  mellifluous  in  diction  and  licentious  in  incident  of 
all  Massinger's  works,  was  acted  at  the  court  of  Charles 
I.,  and  acted,  too,  by  order  of  the  king,  on  Sunday, 
January  12,  1633.  This  coarseness  is  a  deplorable  blot 
on  Massinger's  plays ;  but  that  it  is  to  be  referred  to  the 
manners  of  his  time,  and  not  to  his  own  immorality, 
is  proved  by  the  fact  that  his  vital  sympathies  were 
for  virtue  and  justice,  and  that   his  genius  never  dis- 


184  MASSINGER. 

played  itself  in  his  representations  of  coarse  depravity. 
As  a  man  he  seems  to  have  had  not  merely  elevated 
sentiments,  but  strong  religious  feelings.  If  his  unim- 
passioned  spirit  ever  rose  to  fervor,  the  fervor  was 
moral ;  his  best  things  are  ethically,  as  well  as  poetically 
the  best ;  and  in  reading  him  we  often  find  passages 
like  the  following,  which  leap  up  from  the  prosaic  level 
of  his  diction  as  by  an  impulse  of  ecstasy :  — 

"  Wlien  good  men  pursue 
The  path  marked  out  by  vh'tue,  the  blest  saints 
With  joy  look  on  it,  and  seraphic  angels 
Clap  their  celestial  wings  in  heavenly  plaudits." 

"  Honor  is 
Virtue's  allowed  ascent;  honor,  that  clasps 
All  perfect  justice  in  her  arms,  that  craves 
No  more  respect  than  what  she  gives,  that  does 
Nothing  but  what  she  '11  suffer." 

"  As  you  have 
A  soul  moulded  from  heaven,  and  do  desire 
To  have  it  made  a  star  there,  make  the  means 
Of  your  ascent  to  that  celestial  height 
Virtue  winged  with  brave  action :  they  draw  near 
The  nature  and  the  essence  of  the  gods 
Who  imitate  their  goodness." 

"  By  these  blessed  feet 
That  pace  the  paths  of  equity,  and  tread  boldly 
On  the  stiff  neck  of  tyramious  oppression, 


FOKD.  185 

By  these  tears  by  which  I  bathe  them,  I  conjure  j'ou 
With  pity  to  look  on  me." 

We  now  come  to  a  very  different  dramatist,  John 
Ford,  whose  genius  and  personal  appearance  are 
shrewdly  indicated  in  a  rugged  couplet  from  a  contem- 
porary satire :  — 

"  Deep  iu  a  dump,  John  Ford  by  himself  sat, 
With  folded  arms  and  melancholy  hat." 

In  that  somewhat  dainty  mental  loneliness,  and  under 
that  melancholy  hat,  the  mind  of  the  poet  was  absorbed 
in  the  iutensest  meditation  of  the  ideal  possibilities  of 
grief  and  guilt,  and  the  strange  aberrations  of  the  pas- 
sions. Massinger  has  little  sway  over  the  heart;  but 
Ford  was  not  merely  the  poet  of  the  heart,  but  of  the 
broken  heart,  —  the  heart  bending  under  burdens,  or 
torn  by  emotions,  almost  too  great  for  mortality  to  bear. 
In  reading  his  tragedies,  as  in  reading  Webster's,  we  are 
fretfully  conscious  of  being  shut  up  in  the  sultry  atmos- 
phere of  one  morbid  mind,  deprived  of  all  companion- 
ship with  healthy  nature  and  genial  human  life,  and 
forced  into  a  shuddering  or  sickly  sympathy  with  the 
extremes  of  crime  and  suffering.  But  the  power  of 
Webster  lies  in  terror ;  the  power  of  Ford,  in  tender- 
ness. Out  of  his  peculiar  walk,  Ford  is  the  feeblest  of 
finical   fine    writers.      His   attempts   at   liveliness   and 


186  .  FORD. 

humor  excite,  not  laughter,  but  rather  a  dismal  feeling 
of  pitying  contempt.  His  great  gift  is  displayed  in 
the  tragedy  of  The  Broken  Heart,  and  in  two  or 
three  thrilling  scenes  of  the  tragedy  of  Love's  Sacri- 
fice. In  The  Broken  Heart,  the  noblest  of  his  works, 
our  sympathies  are  on  the  whole  rightly  directed ;  and 
the  death  of  Calantha,  after  enduring  the  most  soul- 
crushing  calamities,  concealed  from  others  under  a  show 
of  mirth,  is  exquisitely  pathetic :  — 

"  0  my  lords, 
I  but  deceived  your  eyes  with  anticls  gesture, 
When  one  news  straight  came  huddling  on  another. 
Of  death,  and  death,  and  death,  still  I  danced  forward ; 
But  it  struck  home,  and  here,  and  in  an  instant. 

They  are  the  silent  griefs  which  cut  the  heartstrings ; 
Let  me  die  smiling." 

Of  another  of  Ford's  tragedies,  which  can  hardly 
be  named  here,  Campbell  justly  remarks  :  "  Better  that 
poetry  should  cease  to  exist  than  have  to  do  with  such 
subjects."  But  it  is  characteristic  of  Ford,  that  his 
power  and  tenderness  are  seldom  so  great  as  in  their 
worst  perversions.  Without  any  austerity  of  soul,  dis- 
eased in  his  sympathies,  a  sentimentalist  rather  than  a 
man  of  sentiment,  he  brooded  over  guilt  until  all  sense 
of  its  wickedness  was  lost  in  a  morbid  pity  for  its  afflic- 


FORD.  187 

tions,  and  the  tears  he  compels  us  to  shed  are  rarely  the 
tears  of  honest  and  manly  feeling. 

Ford  died,  or  disappeared,  about  the  year  1640,  and 
with  him  died  the  last  original  dramatist  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan age ;  for  Shirley,  though  his  plays  fill  six  thick 
volumes,  was  but  a  faint  echo  of  Fletcher.  Thus,  in 
a  short  period  of  fifty  years,  from  1590  to  1640,  we 
have  the  names  of  thirteen  dramatists,  varying  in  power 
and  variety  of  power  and  perversion  of  power,  but  each 
individual  in  his  genius,  and  one  the  greatest  genius  of 
the  world,  —  the  names  of  Marlowe,  Shakespeare,  Ben 
Jonson,  Heywood,  Middleton,  Marston,  Dekkar,  Web- 
ster, Chapman,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Massinger,  and 
Ford.  Though  little  is  known  of  their  lives,  it  is 
through  them  we  learn  the  life  of  their  time,  —  the 
manners,  customs,  character,  ideas,  habits,  sentiments, 
and  passions,  the  form  and  the  spirit,  of  the  Elizabethan 
age.  And  they  are  all  intensely  and  audaciously  human. 
Taking  them  in  the  mass,  they  have  much  to  offend  our 
artistic  and  shock  our  moral  sense;  but  still  the  dra- 
matic literature  of  the  world  would  be  searched  in  vain 
for  another  instance  of  so  broad  and  bold  a  representa- 
tion of  the  varieties  of  human  nature,  —  one  in  which 
the  conventional  restraints  both  on  depravity  and  excel- 
lence are  so  resolutely  set  aside,  —  one  in  which  the 
many;charactered  soul  of  man  is  so  vividly  depicted,  in 


188  FORD. 

its  weakness  and  in  its  strength,  in  its  mirth  and  in  its 
passion,  in  the  appetites  which  sink  it  below  the  beasts 
that  perish,  in  the  aspirations  which  lift  it  to  regions 
of  existence  of  which  the  visible  heavens  are  but  the 
veil. 


SPENSEE. 

"TN  the  last  chapter  we  closed  our  remarks  on  the 
Dramatic  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth.  In 
the  present  we  propose  to  treat  of  Spenser,  with  some 
introductory  observations  on  the  miscellaneous  poets 
who  preceded  him.  And  it  is  necessary  to  bear  in  mind 
that,  in  the  age  of  which  we  treat,  as  in  all  ages,  the 
versifiers  far  exceeded  the  seers,  and  the  poetasters  the 
poets.  It  has  been  common  to  exercise  a  charity  to- 
wards the  early  English  poets  which  we  refuse  to  extend 
to  those  of  later  times ;  but  mediocrity  has  identical 
characteristics  in  all  periods,  and  there  was  no  charm 
in  the  circumstances  of  the  Elizabethan  age  to  convert 
a  rhymer  into  a  genius.  Indeed,  leaving  out  the  drama- 
tists, the  poetry  produced  in  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth 
and  James  can  hardly  compare  in  originality,  richness, 
and  variety,  with  the  English  poetry  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Spenser  is  a  great  name ;  but  he  is  the  only 
undraraatic  poet  of  his  time  who  could  be  placed  above, 
or  on  a  level  with,  "Wordsworth,  Byron,  Shelley,  Cole- 
ridge, or  Tennyson.  There  is  a  list,  somewhere,  of  two 
hundred   names   of  poets  who  belonged  to  the  Eliza- 


190  SPENSER. 

bethan  age,  —  mostly  mere  nebulous  appearances,  which 
it  requires  a  telescope  of  the  greatest  power  to  resolve 
into  individual  stars.  Few  of  them  can  be  made  to 
shine  with  as  steady  a  lustre  as  the  ordinary  versemen 
who  contribute  to  our  magazines.  Take  England's 
Helicon  and  the  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices,  —  two 
collections  of  the  miscellaneous  poetry  written  during 
the  last  forty  or  fifty  years  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
—  and,  if  we  except  a  few  pieces  by  Raleigh,  Sidney, 
Marlowe,  Greene,  Lodge,  Breton,  Watson,  Nash,  and 
Hunnis,  these  collections  have  little  to  dazzle  us  into 
admiration  or  afflict  us  with  a  sense  of  inferiority. 
Reading  them  is  a  task,  in  which  an  occasional  elegance 
of  thought,  or  quaintness  of  fancy,  or  sweetness  of  sen- 
timent does  not  compensate  for  the  languor  induced 
by  tiresome  repetitions  of  moral  commonplaces,  varied 
by  repetitions,  as  tiresome,  of  amatory  commonplaces. 
In  the  great  body  of  the  poetry  of  the  time  there  is 
more  that  is  bad  than  tolerable,  more  that  is  tolerable 
than  readable,  and  more  that  is  readable  than  excellent. 
One  person,  however,  stands  out  from  this  mob  of 
versifiers  the  most  noticeable  elevation  in  English  po- 
etry from  Chaucer  to  Spenser,  namely,  Thomas  Sack- 
ville,  afterwai'ds  Lord  Buckhurst,  and,  still  later.  Earl 
of  Dorset.  Born  in  153C,  and  educated  at  both  imiver- 
sities,  his  poetic  genius  was  but  one  phase  of  his  general 


SPENSER.  191 

ability.  In  15 Gl  his  tragedy  of  Gorboduc  was  acted 
with  great  applause  before  the  Queen.  Previously  to 
this,  in  1559,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three,  he  had  joined 
two  dreary  poetasters  —  Baldwyne  and  Ferrers — in  the 
production  of  a  work  called  The  Mirrour  for  Magis- 
trates, the  design  of  which  was  to  exhibit,  in  a  series 
of  metrical  narratives  and  soliloquies,  the  calamities  of 
men  prominent  in  the  history  of  England.  The  work 
passed  to  a  third  edition  in  1571,  and  received  such 
constant  additions  from  other  writers,  in  the  fourth,  fifth, 
and  sixth  editions,  that  its  bulk  finally  became  enoi'- 
mous.  Its  poetical  value  is  altogether  in  the  compar- 
atively meagre  contributions  of  Sackville,  consisting  of 
the  Induction,  and  the  complaint  of  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham. The  Induction,  especially,  is  a  masterpiece 
of  meditative  imagination,  working  under  the  impulse 
of  sternly  serious  sentiment.  Misery  and  sorrow  seem 
the  dark  inspirers  of  Sackville's  Muse  ;  and  his  alle- 
goric pictures  of  Revenge,  Remorse,  Old  Age,  Dread, 
Care,  Sleep,  Famine,  Strife,  "War,  and  Death  exhibit 
such  a  combination  of  reflective  and  analytic  with  im- 
aginative power,  of  melody  of  verse  with  compact,  mas- 
sive strength  and  certainty  of  verbal  expression,  that 
our  wonder  is  awakened  that  a  man  with  such  a  con- 
scious mastery  of  the  resources  of  thought  and  language 
should  have  written  so  little.     If  political  ambition  — 


192  SPENSER. 

the  ambition  that  puts  thoughts  into  facts  instead  of 
putting  them  into  words  —  was  the  cause  of  his  with- 
drawal from  the  Muse,  —  if  Burleigh  tempted  him  from 
Dante,  —  it  must  be  admitted  that  his  choice,  in  a  worldly 
sense,  was  justified  by  the  event,  for  he  became  an  emi- 
nent statesman,  and  in  1598  was  made  Lord  High 
Treasurer  of  England.  He  held  that  great  oflSce  at  the 
time  of  his  death,  in  1608.  But  it  is  probable  that 
Sackville  ceased  to  cultivate  poetry  because  he  failed 
to  reap  its  internal  rewards.  His  genius  had  no  joy  in 
it,  and  its  exercise  probably  gave  him  little  poetic 
delight.  With  great  force  of  imagination,  his  was  still 
a  somewhat  dogged  force.  He  could  discern  clearly, 
and  shape  truly,  but  no  sudden  ecstasy  of  emotion  gave 
a  "  precious  seeing "  to  his  eye  or  unexpected  felicity 
to  his  hand.  There  is  something  bleak  in  his  noblest 
verse.  Th'e  poet,  we  must  ever  remember,  is  paid,  not 
by  external  praise,  or  fortune,  or  fame,  but  by  the  deep 
bliss  of  those  inward  moods  from  which  his  creations 
spring.  The  pleasure  they  give  to  others  is  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  rapture  they  give  to  him. 

But  Sackville  was  to  be  succeeded  by  a  man  who, 
though  he  did  not  exhibit  at  so  early  an  age  equal 
power  of  shaping  imagination,  had  that  perception  of 
the  loveliness  of  things,  and  that  joy  in  the  perception, 
which  make  continuous  poetic  creation  a  necessity  of 


SPENSER.  193 

existence.  In  the  meagre  memorials  of  the  external 
career  of  this  man,  Edmund  Spenser,  there  is  little 
that'  stands  in  intelligible  connection  with  the  wondrous 
inner  life  embodied  in  the  enchantments  of  The  Faery 
Queene.  He  was  born  in  London  in  1552,  and  was 
the  son  of  parents  who,  though  in  humble  circum- 
stances, were  of  gentle  birth.  TVc  first  hear  of  him, 
at  the  age  of  seventeen,  as  a  sizar,  or  charity  student, 
in  Pembroke  Hall,  Cambridge.  While  there  he  made 
acquaintance  and  formed  a  lasting  friendship  with  Ga- 
briel Harvey,  —  a  man  of  large  acquirements,  irritable 
temper,  and  pedantic  taste,  who  rendered  himself  the 
object  of  the  sarcastic  invectives  of  the  wits  of  the 
time,  and  to  be  associated  with  whom  was  to  run  the 
risk  of  sharing  the  ridicule  he  provoked.  One  of  the 
most  beautiful  traits  of  Spenser's  character  was  his  con- 
stancy to  his  friends ;  to  their  persons  when  alive,  to 
their  memory  when  dead.  It  is  difficult  to  discover 
what  intellectual  benefits  Spenser  derived  from  Har- 
vey's companionship,  though  we  know  what  the  world 
has  gained  by  his  refusal  to  follow  his  advice.  It  was 
Harvey  who  tried  to  persuade  Spenser  into  writing 
hexameter  verse,  and  dissuade  him  from  writing  the 
Faery  Queene.  After  seven  years'  residence  at  the 
university,  Spenser  took  his  degree,  and  went  to  reside 
with  some  friends  of  his  family  in  the  North  of  Eng- 

9  M 


194  SPENSER. 

land.  Here  he  fell  in  love  with  a  beautiful  girl,  whose 
real  name  he  has  concealed  under  the  anagrammatic 
one  of  Rosahnd,  and  who,  after  having  tempted' and 
balked  the  curiosity  of  English  critics,  has,  by  an  Amer- 
ican writer,*  who  has  raised  guessing  into  a  science, 
been  satisfactorily  proved  to  be  Rose  Daniel,  a  sister 
of  the  poet  Daniel.  It  is  mortifying  to  record  that  she 
rejected  the  great  exalter  of  her  sex,  —  the  creator  of 
some  of  the  most  exquisite  embodiments  of  female  ex- 
cellence, —  the  man  who  had  the  high  honor  of  saying 
of  women, 

"  For  demigods  they  be,  and  first  did  spring 
From  heaven,  though  graft  in  fraihiess  feminine," 

—  she  rejected  him,  we  say,  for  a  ridiculous  and  irascible 
pedant,  John  Florio,  and  one  so  prominent  in  his  folly 
that  Shakespeare  condescended  to  lampoon  him  in 
Love's  Labor  Lost. 

But  the  graces  of  soul  and  person  which  had  no  effect 
on  the  heart  of  Rosalind  were  not  lost  on  the  mind  of 
Sir  Philip  Sidney.  Litroduced  to  Spenser,  —  it  is  sup- 
posed by  Gabriel  Harvey,  —  Sidney  recognized  his 
genius,  and  warmly  recommended  him  to  his  uncle,  the 
Earl  of  Leicester,  who,  in  1579,  took  him  into  his  ser- 
vice.    In   December   of    that   year    he   published   his 

*  In  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  Novcmher,  1858. 


SPENSER.  195 

Shepherd's  Calendar,  a  series  of  twelve  pastorals, — 
one  for  every  montli.  In  these,  avoiding  the  affectation 
of  refinement,  he  falls  into  the  opposite  affectation  of 
rusticity ;  and,  by  a  profusion  of  obsolete  and  uncouth 
expres>ions,  hinders  the  free  movement  of  his  fancy. 
It  may  be  absurd  for  shepherds  to  talk  in  the  style  of 
courtiers,  as  they  do  in  many  pastoral  poets  ;  but  it  is 
also  absurd  to  give  them  the  sentiments  and  ideas  of 
priests  and  philosophers.  Campbell,  who  is  a  sceptic 
in  regard  to  all  English  pastorals,  is  especially  severe  on 
the  Shepherd's  Calendar.  Spenser's  shepherds,  he 
says,  "  are  parsons  in  disguise,  who  converse  about 
heathen  divinities  and  points  of  Christian  theology. 
Palinode  defends  tlie  luxuries  of  the  Catholic  clergy, 
and  Piers  extols  the  purity  of  Archbishop  Grindal,  con- 
cluding with  the  story  of  a  fox  who  came  to  the  house 
of  a  goat  in  the  character  of  a  pedler,  and  obtained  ad- 
mittance by  pretending  to  be  a  sheep.  This  may  be 
burlesquing  JEsop,  but  certainly  it  is  not  imitating 
Theocritus."  These  eclogues  are,  however,  important, 
considered  in  reference  to  their  position  in  the  history  of 
English  poetry,  and  to  their  connection  with  the  history 
of  the  poet's  heart.  No  descriptions  of  external  nature 
since  Chaucer's  had  equalled  those  in  the  Shepherd's 
Calendar  in  the  combination  of  various  excellences, 
though  the  excellences  were  still  second-rate,  exhibiting 


196  SPENSER. 

the  beautiful  genius  of  the  author  struggling  with  the 
pedantries  and  affectations  of  his  time,  and  the  pedantries 
and  aflfectations  which  overlaid  his  own  mind.  Even  in 
his  prime,  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  grasp  a  thing  in  it- 
self, after  the  manner  of  the  greatest  poets,  and  flash  its 
form  and  spirit  upon  the  mind  in  a  few  vivid  words, 
vital  with  suggestive  meaning.  In  the  Shepherd's  Cal- 
endar this  defect  is  especially  prominent,  his  imagina- 
tion playing  round  objects,  illustrating  and  adorning 
them,  rather  than  penetrating  at  once  to  their  essence. 
Even  in  those  portions  where,  as  Colin  Clout,  he  cele- 
brates the  beauty  and  bewails  the  coldness  of  Rosalind, 
we  have  a  conventional  discourse  about  love,  rather  than 
the  direct  utterance  of  the  passion. 

Spenser's  ambition  w\as  to  obtain  some  office  which, 
by  placing  him  above  want,  would  enable  him  to  follow 
bis  true  vocation  of  poet,  and  he  seems  to  have  looked 
to  Leicester  as  a  magnificent  patron  through  whom  his 
wish  could  be  realized.  The  great  design  of  the  Faery 
Queene  had  already  dawned  upon  his  mind  ;  he 

"  By  that  vision  splendid 
Was  on  his  way  attended  " ; 

and  lie  ached  for  leisure  and  competence  to  enable  him 
to  embody  his  gorgeous  and  noble  dreams.  All  that 
Leicester  did  ^ov  liim  was  to  get  him  appoiated  secretary 


SPENSER.  197 

to  Lord  Grey  of  "Wilton,  who,  in  1580,  went  over  to 
Ireland  as  lord  deputy.  Here  he  passed  the  largest 
remaining  portion  of  his  life  ;  and,  though  moaning  over 
the  hard  fortune  which  banished  him  from  England,  he 
appears  to  have  exhibited  sufficient  talent  for  affairs,  and 
to  have  performed  services  of  sufficient  note,  to  deserve 
the  attention  of  the  government.  In  1586  he  received 
a  grant  of  three  thousand  and  twenty-eight  acres  of 
land,  —  a  portion  of  the  confiscated  estates  of  the  Earl 
of  Desmond.  The  manor  and  the  castle  of  Kilcolman, 
situated  amidst  the  most  beautiful  scenery,  constituted  a 
portion  of  this  grant.  In  1589  the  restless  and  chiv- 
alrous Raleigh,  transiently  out  of  favor  with  the  haughty 
coquette  who  ruled  England,  came  over  to  Ireland  for 
the  purpose  of  looking  after  his  own  immense  estates  in 
that  country,  wrung,  like  Spenser's,  from  the  native  pro- 
prietors.    He  visited  the  lone  poet  at  Kilcolman ;  and 

to  him, 

"  Amongst  the  coolly  shade 
Of  the  green  alders  by  the  Mullacs  shore," 

Spenser  read  the  first  three  books  of  The  Faery 
Queene.  Campbell  finely  says :  "  When  we  conceive 
Spenser  reciting  his  compositions  to  Raleigh  in  a  scene 
so  beautifully  appropriate,  the  mind  casts  pleasing  retro- 
spect over  that  influence  which  the  enterprise  of  the  dis- 
coverer of  Virginia  and  the  genius  of  the  author  of  the 


198  SPENSER. 

Faery  Queene  have  respectively  produced  in  the  fortune 
and  language  of  England.  The  fancy  might  easily  be 
pardoned  for  a  momentary  superstition,  that  the  genius  of 
their  country  hovered,  unseen,  over  their  meeting,  cast- 
ing her  first  look  of  regard  on  the  poet  that  was  destined 
to  inspire  her  future  Milton,  and  the  other  on  her  mari- 
time hero,  who  paved  the  way  for  colonizing  distant 
regions  of  the  earth,  where  the  language  of  England 
was  to  be  spoken,  and  the  poetry  of  Spenser  to  be  ad- 
mired." 

Ealeigh,  his  imagination  kindled  by  the  enchantments 
of  Spenser's  verse,  and  feeling  that  h'e  had  discovered 
in  an  Irish  wilderness  the  greatest  of  living  poets,  pre- 
vailed on  the  too-happy  author  to  accompany  him  to 
England.  Spenser  was  graciously  received  by  Eliza- 
beth, and  was  smitten  with  a  courtier's  hopes  in  receiv- 
ing a  poet's  welcome. 

In  the  early  part  of  1590  the  first  three  books  of  The 
Faery  Queene  were  published.  "Who  that  has  read  it 
can  ever  forget  the  thrill  that  went  through  him  as  he 
completed  the  first  stanza  ? 

•'  Lo,  I  the  man  whose  Muse  whilom  did  mask, 
As  Time  her  taught,  iu  lowly  shepherd's  weeds, 
Am  now  enforced,. —  a  far  unfitter  task,  — 
For  tmmpcts  stern  to  change  ray  oaten  reeds; 
And  sing  of  knights'  and  ladies'  gentle  deeds, 
Whose  praises,  having  slept  hi  sOcuce  long. 


SPENSER.  199 

Me,  all  too  mean,  the  sacred  muse  areeds, 
To  blazon  broad  amongst  her  learned  throng: 
.     Fierce  wars  and  faithful  loves  shall  moralize  my  song." 

"  The  admiration,"  says  Hallam,  "  of  this  great  poem 
was  unanimous  and  enthusiastic.  No  academy  had 
been  trained  to  carp  at  his  genius  with  minute  cavilling ; 
no  recent  populai-ity,  no  traditional  fame,  interfered 
with  the  immediate  recognition  of  his  supremacy.  The 
Faery  Queene  became  at  once  the  delight  of  every  ac- 
complished gentleman,  the  model  of  every  poet,  the 
solace  of  every  scholar." 

But  if  the  aspirations  of  the  poet  were  thus  gratified, 
those  of  the  courtier  and  politician  were  cruelly  disap- 
pointed. Burleigh,  the  Lord  Treasurer,  to  whom  Spen- 
ser was  merely  a  successful  maker  of  ballads,  and  one 
pushed  forward  by  the  faction  which  was  constantly  in- 
triguing for  his  lordship's  overthrow,  contrived  to  inter- 
cept, delay,  or  divert  the  favor  which  the  queen  was 
wilHug  to  bestow  on  her  melodious  flatterer.  The 
irritated  bard,  in  a  few  memorable  couplets,  has  re- 
corded, for  the  warning  of  all  office-seekers  and  suppli- 
cants for  the  patronage  of  the  great,  his  wretched  ex- 
perience during  the  year  and  a  half  he  danced  attend- 
ance on  the  court.  Rage  is  a  great  condenser ;  and 
the  most  diffuse  of  poets  became  the  most  concentrated 
when  wrath  brooded  over  the  memory  of  wrong. 


200  SPENSER. 

"  To  fret  thy  soul  -vvltli  crosses  and  witli  cares; 
To  eat  thy  heart  through  comfortless  despairs; 
To  fawn,  to  crouch,  to  wait,  to  ride,  to  run, 
To  spend,  to  give,  to  want,  to  be  undone,"  — 

this  was  the  harsh  experience  of  the  laurelled  minstrel, 
fresh  from  the  glories  of  fairy-land.  But  it  is  only 
charitable  to  allow  for  the  different  points  of  view  from 
which  different  minds  survey  the  poet.  To  Burleigh, 
Spenser  was  a  rhyming  suitor,  clamorous  for  the  queen's 
favor,  and  meditating  designs  on  her  treasury.  To  a 
Mr.  Beeston,  according  to  Aubrey,  "  he  was  a  little 
man,  who  wore  short  hair,  little  band,  and  little  cuffs." 
Did  not  the  sullen  Burleigh  have  a  more  profound  ap- 
preciation of  Spenser  than  the  great  world  of  common- 
place gossips,  represented  by  friend  Beeston  ?  At  last, 
in  February,  1591,  Spenser  succeeded  in  obtaining  a 
pension  of  fifty  pounds,  and  returned,  but  half  satisfied, 
to  Ireland.  In  a  graceful  poem,  called  Colin  Clout 's 
Come  Home  Again,  full  of  gratitude  to  Ealeigh  and 
adulation  of  Elizabeth,  he  described  the  glories  and  the 
vanities  he  had  witnessed  at  the  English  Court. 

A  deeper  passion  than  that  which  inspired  the  amo- 
rous plaints  of  the  Shepherd's  Calendar,  and  one  des- 
tined to  a  happier  end,  he  now  recorded  in  a  series  of 
exquisitely  thoughtful  and  tender  sonnets,  under  tlie 
general  name  of  Amoretti ;  and  he  celebrated  its  long- 


SPENSER.  201 

deferred  consummation  in  a  rapturous  Epithalaraion. 
We  liave  no  means  of  judging  of  Elizabeth,  the  Irish 
maiden  who  prompted  these  wonderful  poems,  except 
from  her  ti'ansfigured  image  as  seen  reflected  in  Spen- 
ser's verse,  —  verse  which  has  made  her  perfect  and  has 
made  her  immortal.  The  Epithalamion  is  the  grandest 
and  purest  marriage-song  in  literature.  Even  Hallam, 
the  least  enthusiastic  of  critics,  and  one  who  too  often 
writes  as  if  judgment  consisted,  not  in  the  inclusion,  but 
exclusion  of  sympathy,  cannot  speak  of  this  poem  with- 
out an  unwonted  touch  of  ecstasy  in  the  words  which 
convey  his  magisterial  decision.  And  John  Wilson  grows 
wild  in  its  praise.  "  Joy,"  he  says,  — "  Joy,  Love, 
Desire,  Passion,  Gratitude,  Religion,  i-ejoice,  in  pi-es- 
ence  of  Heaven,  to  take  possession  of  Aifection,  Beauty, 
and  Innocence.  Faith  and  Hope  are  bridesmaids,  and 
holiest  incense  is  burning  on  the  altar."  But  the  rap- 
tures of  critics  can  convey  no  adequate  idea  of  the 
deep,  thoughtful,  satisfying  delight  that  breathes  through 
the  Epithalamion,  and  harmonizes  its  occasional  starts 
of  ecstasy  into  unity  with  its  pervading  spirit  of  tran- 
quil bliss.  How  simple  and  tender,  and  yet  how  in- 
tensely imaginative,  is  this  exquisite  picture  of  the 
bride  ! 

"  Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks 
9* 


202  SPENSER. 

And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 

How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks, 

And  the  pure  snow  with  goodly  vermeil  stain 

Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain : 

That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 

About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 

Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 

Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fair 

The  more  they  on  it  stare. 

But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground, 

Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty. 

That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glance  awr}'. 

Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 

Why  blush  ye,  Love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand, 

The  pledge  of  all  our  band  ? 

Sing,  ye  sweet  angels,  Allelujah  sing. 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echoes  ring!  " 

Nothing  can  be  more  delicately  poetic  than  the  line  in 
which  the  hands  of  the  priest,  lifted  over  the  head  of 
the  bride  in  the  act  of  benediction,  receive  a  reflected 
joy  from  the  beauty  they  bless :  — 

"  And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands." 

At  the  time  of  his  marriage,  in  1594,  Spenser  had 
completed  three  more  books  of  The  Faery  Queene,  and 
in  1595  he  visited  England  for  the  purpose  of  publish- 
ing them.  They  appeared  in  159 G.  During  this  visit 
he  presented  to  the  queen  his  View  of  the  State  of  Ire- 
land, —  a   prose   tract,  displaying   the   sagacity  of  an 


SPENSER.  203 

English  statesman,  but  a  spirit  towards  the  poor  native 
Irish  as  ruthless  as  Cromwell's.  He  felt,  in  respect  to 
the  population  of  the  country  in  which  he  was  forced 
to  make  his  home,  as  a  Puritan  New-Englander  might 
have  felt  in  regard  to  the  wild  Indians  who  were  skulk- 
ing round  his  rude  cabin,  peering  for  a  chance  at  the 
scalps  of  his  children.  Returning  to  Ireland,  with  the 
queen's  recommendation  for  the  office  of  Sheriff  of  Cork, 
his  worldly  fortunes  seemed  now  to  be  assured.  But  in 
1598  the  Insurrection  of  Munster  broke  out.  Spenser, 
who  appears,  not  unnaturally,  to  have  been  especially 
hated  by  the  Irish,  lost  everything.  His  house  was 
assailed,  pillaged,  and  burned ;  and  in  the  hurry  of  his 
departure  from  his  burning  dwelling,  it  is  said  that  his 
youngest  child  was  left  to  perish  in  the  flames.  He 
succeeded,  with  the  remaining  portion  of  his  family,  in 
escaping  to  London,  where,  in  a  common  inn,  overcome 
by  his  misfortunes,  and  broken  in  heart  and  brain,  on 
the  16th  of  January,  1599,  he  died.  The  saddest  thing 
of  all  remains  to  be  recorded.  Soon  after  his  death  — 
such  is  the  curt  statement  — "  his  widow  married  one 
Roger  Seckerstone."  Did  Edmund  Spenser,  then,  after 
all,  appear  to  his  wife  Elizabeth  as  he  appeared  to 
Mr.  Beeston,  —  simply  as  "  a  little  man,  who  wore 
short  hair,  little  band,  and  little  cuffs "  ?  One  would 
suppose  that  the  memory  of  so  much  genius  and  glory 


204  SPENSER. 

and  calamity  would  have  been  better  than  the  presence 
of  "  one  Roger  Seckerstone  "  !  Among  the  thousands 
of  millions  of  men  born  on  the  planet,  it  was  her  for- 
tune to  be  the  companion  of  Edmund  Spenser,  and 
"soon  after  his  death  she  married  one  Roger  Secker- 
stone " !  It  required  two  yeax'S  of  assiduous  courtship, 
illustrated  by  sonnets  which  have  made  her  name  im- 
mortal, before  the  adoring  poet  could  hymn,  in  a  trans- 
port of  gratitude,  her  acceptance  of  his  hand ;  but  for- 
tunate Mr.  Seckerstone  did  not  have  to  wait !  She  saw 
her  husband  laid  in  Westminster  Abbey,  mourned  by 
all  that  was  noble  in  rank  or  high  in  genius,  and  then, 
as  in  the  case  of  another  too-celebrated  marriage, 

"  The  funeral  baked  meats 
Did  coldly  furnish  foi'th  the  marriage  tables!  " 

The  work  to  which  Spenser  devoted  the  largest  por- 
tion of  his  meditative  life  was  The  Faery  Queene ;  and 
in  this  poem  the  whole  nature  and  scope  of  his  genius 
may  be  discerned.  Its  object,  as  he  tells  us,  "  was  to 
fashion  a  gentleman  or  noble  person  in  virtuous  and 
gentle  discipline  "  ;  and,  as  doctrine  embodied  in  persons 
is  more  efficient  than  doctrine  embodied  in  maxims,  he 
proposed  to  do  this  by  means  of  a  historical  fiction,  in 
which  duty  should  be  infused  into  the  mind  by  tl^e  pro- 
cess of  delight,  and  Virtue,  reunited  to  the  Beauty  from 


SPENSER.  205 

which  she  had  unwisely  been  severed,  sliould  be  pre- 
sented as  an  object  to  be  passionately  loved  as  well  as 
reverently  obeyed.  He  chose  for  his  subject  the  history 
of  Arthur,  the  fabulous  hero  and  king  of  England,  as 
familiar  to  readers  of  romance  then  as  the  heroes  of 
Scott's  novels  are  to  the  readers  of  our  time  ;  and  he 
purposed  "  to  portray  in  him,  before  he  was  king,  the 
image  of  a  brave  knight,  perfected  in  the  twelve  private 
moral  virtues."  This  plan  was  to  be  comprised  in 
twelve  books ;  and  then  he  proposed,  in  case  his  plan 
succeeded,  "  to  frame  the  other  part  of  politic  virtues 
in  his  person,  after  he  came  to  be  king."  As  only  one 
half  of  the  first  portion  of  this  vast  design  was  com- 
pleted, as  this  half  makes  one  of  the  longest  poems  in 
the  world,  and  as  all  but  the  poet's  resolute  admirers 
profess  their  incapacity  to  read  without  weariness  more 
than  the  first  three  books,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
Spenser's  conception  of  the  abstract  capabilities  of  hu- 
man patience  was  truly  heroic,  and  that  his  confidence 
in  his  own  longevity  was  founded  on  a  reminiscence  of 
Methuselah  rather  than  on  a  study  of  vital  statistics. 

But  the  poem  was  also  intended  by  the  author  to  be 
"  one  long-continued  allegory  or  dark  conceit."  The 
story  and  the  characters  are  symbolic  as  well  as  repre- 
sentative. The  pictures  that  please  the  eye,  the  melody 
that  charms  the  ear,  the  beauty  that  would  seem  "  its 


206  SPENSER. 

own  excuse  for  being,"  cover  a  latent  meaning,  not  per- 
ceptible to  the  senses  they  delight,  but  to  be  interpreted 
by  the  mind.  Philosophical  ideas,  ethical  truths,  his- 
torical events,  compliments  to  contemporaries,  satire  on 
contemporaries,  are  veiled  and  sometimes  hidden  in 
these  beautiful  forms  and  heroic  incidents.  Much  of 
this  covert  sense  is  easily  detected ;  but  to  explain  all 
would  require  a  commentator  who  could  not  only  think 
from  Spenser's  mind,  but  recall  from  oblivion  all  the 
gossip  of  Elizabeth's  court.  The  general  intention  of 
the  allegorical  design  is  given  by  the  poet  himself,  in 
his  letter  to  Raleigh.  He  supposes  Prince  Arthur,  after 
his  long  education  by  Timon,  "  to  have  seen  in  a  dream 
or  vision  the  Faery  Queene,  with  whose  excellent 
beauty  ravished,  he,  awaking,  resolved  to  seek  her  out  "; 
and,  armed  by  the  magician  Merlin,  Arthur  went  to 
seek  her  in  fairy-land.  Spenser  is  careful  to  inform  us 
that  by  the  Faery  Queene  he  means  Glory  in  his  gen- 
eral intention,  but  in  his  particular,  "  the  excellent  and 
glorious  person  of  our  sovereign  the  queen,  and  her 
kingdom  in  fairy-land."  And  considering  that  she  bears 
two  persons,  "  the  one  of  a  most  royal  queen  or  em- 
press, the  other  of  a  virtuous  and  beautiful  lady,  the 
latter  part  in  some  places  I  do  express  in  Belphosbe." 
Arthur  he  intends  to  be  the  embodiment  of  the  virtue 
of  Magnificence,  or  Magnanimity,  as   this  contains  all 


SPENSER.  207 

the  other  virtues,  and  is  the  perfection  of  them  all ;  but 
of  the  twelve  separate  virtues  he  takes  twelve  different 
knights  for  the  patrons,  making  the  adventures  of  each 
the  subject  of  a  whole  book,  though  the  magnificent 
Arthur  appears  in  all,  exercising  with  ease  the  special 
virtue,  Avhether  it  be  temperance,  or  holiness,  or  chas- 
tity, or  courtesy,  or  justice,  which  is  included  in  the 
rounded  perfection  of  his  moral  being.  The  explana- 
tion of  the  causes  of  these  several  adventures  was,  in 
the  poem,  to  be  reserved  to  the  twelfth  book,  of  which 
the  rude  Ii'ish  kerns  unwittingly  deprived  us,  in  depriv- 
ing us  of  the  brain  in  which  alone  it  had  existence ;  but 
we  know  that  the  poet's  plan  was,  in  that  book,  to  rep- 
resent the  Faery  Queene  as  keeping  her  annual  feast 
twelve  days,  "  upon  which  the  occasions  of  the  twelve 
separate  adventures  happened,  which,  being  undertaken 
by  twelve  separate  knights,"  were  in  the  twelve  books 
of  the  poem  to  be  severally  described.  Spenser  defends 
his  course  in  thus  putting  what  might  be  deemed  the 
beginning  at  the  end,  by  discriminating  between  the 
poet  historical  and  the  historiographer.  A  historiog- 
rapher, he  says,  "  discourseth  of  affairs  orderly,  as  they 
were  done,  accounting  as  well  the  times  as  the  actions  : 
but  a  poet  thrusteth  into  the  middest,  ever  where  it 
most  concerneth  him,  and  there  recoursing  to  things  fore- 
past,  and  divining  of  things  to  come,  maketh  a  pleasing 
analysis  of  all." 


208  SPENSER. 

In  judging  of  the  plan  of  the  Faery  Queene,  we 
must  remember  that  it  is  a  fragment.  Spenser  only 
completed  six  books,  of  twelve  cantos  each,  and  a  por- 
tion of  another.  The  tradition  that  three  unpublished 
books  were  destroyed  by  the  fire  which  consumed  his 
dwelling  has,  by  the  latest  and  ablest  editor  of  his 
works,  Professor  F.  J.  Child,  been  rejected  as  un- 
founded and  untenable.  But,  though  the  poem  was  never 
completed,  we  know  the  poet's  design ;  and,  much  as 
this  design  has  been  censured,  it  seems  to  us  that  the 
radical  defect  was  not  in  what  Spenser  proposed  to  do, 
but  in  the  way  he  did  it,  —  not  in  the  plan  of  the  poem, 
but  in  the  limitations  of  the  poet.  He  conceived  the 
separate  details  —  the  individual  objects,  persons,  and 
incidents  —  imaginatively  ;  but  he  conceived  the  whole 
plan  logically.  He  could  give,  and  did  give,  elaborate 
reasons  for  the  conduct  of  his  story, — better  reasons, 
perhaps,  than  Homer,  or  Shakespeare,  or  Cervantes, 
or  Goethe  could  have  given  to  justify  the  designs  of  his 
works  ;  but  do  you  suppose  that  he  could  have  given 
reasons  for  Una,  or  Florimel,  or  Amoret?  The  truth  is, 
that  his  design  was  too  large  and  complicated  for  his  im- 
agination to  grasp  as  a  whole.  The  parts,  each  organ- 
ically conceived,  are  not  organically  related.  The  result 
is  a  series  of  organisms  connected  by  a  logical  bond, 
—  an  endless  procession  of  beautiful  forms,  but  no  such 


SPENSER.  2(19 

vital  combination  of  them  as  would  convey  unity  of  im- 
pression. The  cumbrousness  and  confusion  and  diffusion 
which  critics  have  recognized  in  the  poem  are  to  be  re- 
ferred to  the  fact  that  the  processes  of  the  understanding, 
coldly  contemplating  the  general  plan,  are  in  hopeless 
antagonism  to  the  processes  of  the  imagination,  raptur- 
ously beholding  and  bodying  forth  the  separate  facts. 
The  moment  the  poet  abandons  himself  to  his  genius  he 
forgets,  and  makes  us  forget,  the  purpose  he  had  in  view 
at  the  start ;  and  he  and  we  are  only  recalled  from  the 
delicious  dream  in  order  that  he  may  moralize,  and  that 
we  may  yawn.  A  dozen  lines  might  be  selected  from  any 
canto  which  are  of  more  value  than  his  statement  of  the 
idea  of  the  whole  poem.  In  truth,  the  combining,  co- 
ordinating, centralizing,  fusing  imagination  of  the  highest 
order  of  genius,  —  an  imagination  competent  to  seize  and 
hold  such  a  complex  design  as  our  poet  contemplated,  and 
to  flash  in  brief  and  burning  words  details  over  which  his 
description  lovingly  lingers,  —  this  was  a  power  denied 
to  Spenser.  He  has  auroral  lights  in  profusion,  but  no 
lightning.  It  is  not  that  he  lacks  power.  The  Cave 
of  Despair,  the  description  of  Mammon  and  of  Jealousy, 
the  Binding  of  Furor,  not  to  mention  other  examples, 
are  full  of  power  ;  but  it  is  not  condensed  into  that  di- 
rect executive  efficiency  which,  in  the  same  instant, 
irradiates,  smites,  and  is  gone.     He  has  not  so  much  of 

N 


210  SPENSER. 

this  power  as  Byron,  though  he  greatly  exceeds  him 
iu  fulness  of  matter  and  depth  and  elevation  of  thought. 
The  poem  has  another  defect  which  also  answers  to  a 
limitation  of  Spenser's  character.  His  disposition  was 
soft  and  yielding  ;  and,  to  honor  a  friend  or  propitiate 
a  patron,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  make  his  verse  a  vehicle 
of  flattery  as  well  as  of  truth.  If  by  Prince  Arthur  he 
intended  any  real  person,  it  was  probably  Sir  Philip 
Sidney  ;  but  in  the  sixth  book  he  allows  himself  to  asso- 
ciate the  name  of  Arthur  with  the  ignominious  campaign 
of  Leicester  in  the  Netherlands,  —  Leicester  who  repre- 
sented the  seven  deadly  sins  rather  than  the  twelve 
moral  virtues.  Sir  Arthegall,  again,  stands  for  Lord 
Grey  of  Wilton,  the  Irish  lord  deputy,  whom  Spenser 
served  as  secretary  ;  but  Grey  was  the  exponent  of 
ruthlessness  rather  than  of  justice.  The  flattery  of 
Queen  Elizabeth  is  so  gross,  that  the  wonder  is  that  she 
did  not  behead  him  for  irony  instead  of  pensioning  him 
for  panegyric.  The  queen's  hair  was  red,  or,  as  some 
still  chivalrously  insist,  auburn ;  and  Spenser,  like  the 
other  poets  of  the  day,  is  too  loyal  to  permit  the  ideal 
head  of  beauty  to  wear  any  locks  but  those  which  are 
golden.  In  the  first  book,  the  Red-Cross  Knight,  who 
is  the  personification  of  Holiness,  after  being  married  to 
Una,  who  is  the  pei'sonification  of  Truth  or  True  Re- 
ligion, leaves  her  at  the  end  of  the  twelfth  canto  to  go  to 


SPENSER.  211 

the  court  of  Gloriana,  the  Faery  Queene.  Now  if 
Gloriana  means  Glory,  Holiness  very  improperly  leaves 
True  Religion  to  seek  it ;  if  Gloriana  means  Queen 
Elizabeth,  it  is  probable  that  Holiness  never  arrived  at 
his  destination. 

We  have  thus  a  poet  ungifted  with  the  smiting  direct- 
ness of  power,  the  soaring  and  darting  imagination,  of 
the  very  highest  order  of  minds  ;  a  man  sensitive,  ten- 
der, grateful,  dependent  ;  reverential  to  the  unseen 
realities  of  the  spiritual  world,  deferential  to  the  crowned 
and  coroneted  celebrities  of  the  world  of  fact ;  but 
we  still  have  not  yet  touched  the  peculiarities  of  his 
special  genius.  If  we  pass  into  the  inner  world  of  the 
poet's  spirit,  where  he  really  lived  and  brooded,  we  forget 
criticism  in  the  loving  wonder  and  admiration  evoked 
by  the  sight  of  that  "  paradise  of  devices,"  both  "  dain- 
ty "  and  divine.  "We  are  in  communion  with  a  nature 
in  which  the  most  delicate,  the  most  voluptuous,  sense 
of  beauty  is  in  exquisite  harmony  with  the  austerest 
recognition  of  the  paramount  obligations  of  goodness 
and  rectitude.  The  beauty  of  material  objects  never 
obscures  to  him  the  transcendent  beauty  of  holiness. 
In  his  Bowers  of  Bliss  and  his  Houses  of  Pride  he  sur- 
prises even  voluptuaries  by  the  luxuriousness  of  his 
descriptions,  and  dazzles  even  the  arrogant  by  the 
towering  bravery  of  his  style  ;  but  his  Bowers  of  Bliss 


212  SPENSER. 

repose  on  caverns  of  bale,  and  the  glories  of  his  House 
of  Pride  are  built  over  human  carcasses. 

This  great  mind  ripened  late ;  for  it  was  cumulative 
before  it  was  creative,  and  inventiveness  brooded  over 
memory.  With  great  subtlety  and  strength  of  reason, 
disciplined,  exalted,  and  connected  with  imagination  by 
deep  study  of  the  philosophy  of  Plato,  his  intellect, 
under  the  guidance  of  fixed  spiritual  ideas,  roamed  over 
the  field  of  history  and  fiction,  selecting  from  every 
quarter  fit  nutriment  to  feed  and  increase  its  energies. 
The  mythology  of  Greece  and  Rome,  the  creeds  and 
martyrologies  of  Christendom,  the  romance  and  super- 
stitions of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  ideals  and  facts  of  chiv- 
alry, the  literatures  of  every  civilized  nation,  were  all 
received  into  his  hospitable  intelligence,  and  more  or 
less  assimilated  with  its  substance.  Gradually  his 
imagination,  working  on  these  multifarious  materials, 
gave  them  form  and  life.  Divinities,  fairies,  magicians, 
goblins,  embodied  passions,  became  real  objects  to  his 
inward  vision.     He  had 

"  Sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea," 

and  heard 

"  Old  Triton  blow  his  ■svi-eaUKid  horn." 

He  began  to  believe,  with  more  than  the  usual  faith 
of  the  poet,  in  the  beautiful  or  terrible  or  fantastic 
shapes  with  which  his  fancy  was  peopled.     As  they  had 


SPENSER.  213 

been  modified,  re-ci'eated,  associated  with  his  own  sym- 
pathies and  antipathies,  —  Spenserized,  —  in  the  imagina- 
tive process  they  had  gone  through,  he  felt  spiritually  at 
home  in  their  company.  Even  when  they  were  falsified 
by  actual  facts,  he  knew  they  were  still  the  appropriate 
images  of  essential  truths,  having  a  validity  indepen- 
dent of  experience.  And  it  was  this  wondrous  and 
various  troop  of  ideal  shapes,  palpable  to*  his  own  eye 
and  domesticated  in  his  own  heart,  that  he  sent  forth,  in 
an  endless  succession  of  pictures,  through  the  magical 
pages  of  the  Faery  Queene. 

It  was  the  necessary  condition  of  a  poem,  thus  socia- 
bly blending  Christian  and  Pagan  beliefs,  Platonic  ideas, 
and  barbaric  superstitions,  that  its  action  should  occur 
in  what  Coleridge  happily  calls  "  mental  space."  Truth 
of  scenery,  truth  of  climate,  truth  of  locality,  truth 
of  costume,  could  have  no  binding  authority  in  the 
everywhere  and  nowhere  of  Fairy-Land.  Spenser's 
life  was  too  inward  to  allow  his  observation  of  external 
nature  to  be  close  and  exact.  He  had  not,  of  course, 
the  pert  pretension  of  the  artist  who  said  that  nature 
put  him  out,  or  of  the  French  abstractionist  who, 
when  told  that  his  theory  did  not  agree  with  facts, 
blandly  replied,  "  So  much  the  worse  for  the  facts " ; 
but  his  fault,  if  fault  it  was,  arose  from  a  predominance 
of    his    reflective   and   imaginative    powers    over    his 


214  SPENSER. 

powers  of  observation,  —  from  his  instinctive  habit  of 
subordinating,  in  Bacon's  phrase,  "  the  shows  of  things 
to  the  desires  of  the  mind  "  ;  and,  as  the  scene  of  his 
poem  is  mental  and  not  material  space,  his  lack  of  local 
truth  is  hardly  a  real  defect.  It  is  objected,  for  example, 
that,  in  his  enumeration  of  the  trees  in  one  of  his  forests, 
he  associates  trees  which  in  nature  do  not  coexist ;  but 
his  forest  is  in  Fairy-Land.  Again,  the  following  stanza, 
—  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  the  poem,  describing  the 
melody  which  arose  from  the  Bower  of  Bliss,  —  has 
been  repeatedly  criticised :  — 

"  The  joyous  birds,  shrouded  in  cheerful  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempered  sweet; 
The  angelical,  soft,  trembling  voices  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet; 
Tlie  silver-sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmur  of  the  water's  fall; 
The  water's  fall,  with  difference  discreet. 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 

The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all." 

It  is  objected  that  the  result  of  such  a  combination  of 
sounds,  voices,  and  instruments  would  be  discord,  and 
not  melody.  We  may  be  sure  it  made  music  to  Spen- 
ser's soul,  though  he  admits  that  it  was  not  the  music  of 
earth. 

"  Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  who  did  it  hoar 
To  read  wliat  manner  music  that  mote  be; 


SPENSER.  215 

For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  ear 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmony; 
Birds,  voices,  instruments,  winds,  waters,  all  agree." 

Again,  Hallam  says  that  the  image  conjured  up  by  the 
description  of  Una  riding 

"  Upon  a  lowly  ass  more  white  than  snow, 
But  she  much  whiter," 

is  a  hideous  image  ;  but  it  is  evident  he  does  not  follow 
the  thought  of  the  poet,  who,  rapidly  passing  from  snow 
as  a  material  fact  to  snow  as  an  emblem  of  innocence, 
intends  to  say  that  the  white  purity  of  Una's  soul,  shin- 
ing in  her  face  and  transfiguring  its  expression,  cannot 
be  expressed  by  the  purest  material  symbol.  The 
image  of  a  woman's  face  ghastly  white  passed  before 
Hallam's  eye  ;  we  may  be  sure  that  no  such  uncomely 
image  was  in  Spenser's  mind.  The  real  meaning  is 
so  obvious,  that  its  perversion  by  so  distinguished  a 
critic  proves  that  acuteness  has  no  irreconcilable  feud 
with  imaginative  insensibility,  and  can  be  spiritually 
duU  when  it  prides  itself  most  on  being  intellectually 
keen. 

To  this  inwardness  —  this  ideal  and  idealizing  qual- 
ity of  Spenser's  soul  —  we  must  add  its  melodiousness. 
His  best  thoughts  were  born  in  music.  The  spirit  of 
poetry  is  not  only  felt  in  his  sentiments  and  made  visi- 


216  SPENSER. 

ble  ia  bis  imagery,  but  it  steals  out  in  tbe  recurring 
chimes  of  bis  complicated  stanza.  Accordingly,  Spen- 
ser, rather  than  Shakespeai'e  and  Milton,  —  who,  as  Cole- 
ridge has  remarked,  had  "deeper  and  more  inwoven 
harmonies,"  —  is  commonly  adduced  in  support  of  the 
accredited  dogma,  that  verse  is  as  much  an  essential 
constituent  of  poetry  as  passion  and  imagination.  But 
it  seems  to  us  that  poetry  is  not  necessarily  opposed  to 
prose,  but  to  what  is  prosaic.  It  doubtless  finds  in  the 
verse  of  the  greatest  poets  its  happiest  and  most  vital 
expression  ;  but  sometimes  verse  is  a  clog,  and  its  man- 
agement a  mechanical  exercise.  Much  of  Spenser's, 
especially  in  the  last  three  books  of  The  Faery  Queene, 
is  mere  ingenuity  in  rhythm  and  rhyme  ;  and  even  in 
the  first  three  books  we  continually  light  on  passages 
which  are  essentially  prosaic.  Take,  for  example,  the 
following  stanza,  descriptive  of  Immodest  Mirth,  and  it 
will  readily  be  seen  that  only  the  first  four  lines  are 
poetic :  — 

"  And  therein  sat  a  lady  fresh  and  fair, 
Making  sweet  solace  to  herself  alone : 
Sometimes  she  sang  as  loud  as  lark  in  air, 
Sometimes  she  laughed,  that  nigh  her  breath  was  gone ; 
Yet  was  there  not  with  her  else  any  one, 
That  to  her  might  move  cause  of  men-iment ; 
Matter  of  mirth  enough,  though  there  were  none, 
She  could  devise,  and  thousand  ways  invent 
To  feed  her  foolish  humor  and  vain  jolliment." 


•SPENSEK.  217 

In  Shakespeare's  line, 

"  How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  npon  this  bank !  " 

the  poetry  is  in  the  single  epithet  "  sleeps  "  ;  substitute 
"  lies,"  and  though  the  rhythm  would  be  as  perfect,  the 
poetry  would  be  gone.  The  soul  of  poetry,  indeed,  is 
impassioned  imagination,  using  words,  but  not  neces- 
sarily verse,  in  its  expression.  Bacon  wrote  verse,  and 
execrable  verse  it  is ;  but  was  not  Bacon  a  poet  ?  Is 
not  Milton  a  poet  in  his  prose  ?  Are  not  the  prose 
translations  of  the  Psalms  of  David  poetic  ?  The 
poetic  faculty,  which  is  vital,  cannot  be  made  to  depend 
on  a  form  which,  even  iu  undisputed  poets,  is  so  apt  to 
be  mechanical.  Even  should  we  admit  that  verse  is  the 
body  of  which  poetry  is  the  soul,  cannot  a  soul  mani- 
fest itself  in  a  body  which  does  not  in  all  respects 
correspond  to  it  ?  Cannot  the  essential  spirit  of  poetry 
transfigure  the  rudest,  unrhythmic  expression,  as  the 
soul  of  Socrates  glorified  his  homely  face  ?  It  is  not, 
of  course,  mere  imagination  which  makes  a  poet ;  for 
Aristotle  and  Newton  were  men  of  great  imagination, 
scientifically  directed  to  the  discovery  of  new  truth, 
not  to  the  creation  of  new  beauty.  But  imagination 
directed  by  poetic  sentiment  and  passion  to  poetic  ends 
does  make  the  poet.  And  that  these  conditions  are 
often  fulfilled  in  prose,  and  a  purely  poetic  impression 

10 


218  SPENSER.. 

produced,  cannot  be  denied  without  resisting  the  evi- 
dence of  ordinary  experience. 

And,  though  there  is  a  delicious  charm  in  Spenser's 
sweetest  verse,  the  finest  and  rarest  elements  of  his 
genius  were  independent  of  music.  That  celestial  light 
which  occasionally  touches  his  page  with  an  ineffable 
beauty,  and  which  gave  to  him  in  his  own  time  the 
name  of  "  the  heavenly  Spenser,"  is  a  more  wonderful 
emanation  from  his  mind  than  its  subtlest  melodies. 
We  especially  feel  this  in  his  ideal  delineations  of 
woman,  in  which  he  has  only  been  exceeded  by  Shake- 
speare. He  has  been  called  the  poet's  poet ;  he  should 
also  be  called  the  woman's  poet,  for  the  feminine  ele- 
ment in  his  genius  is  its  loftiest,  deepest,  most  angelic 
element.  The  tenderness,  the  ethereal  softness  and 
grace,  the  moral  purity,  the  sentiment  untainted  by 
sentimentality,  which  characterize  his  impersonations  of 
feminine  excellence,  show,  too,  that  the  poet's  brain  had 
been  fed  from  his  heart,  and  that  reverence  for  woman 
was  the  instinct  of  his  sensibility  before  it  was  con- 
firmed by  the  insight  of  his  imagination. 

The  inwardness  of  Spenser's  genius,  th^  constant 
reference  of  his  creative  faculty  to  internal  ideals  rather 
than  to  objective  facts,  has  given  his  poem  a  special 
character  of  remoteness.  It  is  often  objected  to  his 
female  characters  that  they  are  not  sufficiently  individ- 


SPENSER.  219 

ualized,  and  are  too  far  removed  from  ordinary  life  to 
awaken  human  sympathy.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the 
latter  part  of  this  charge  is  not  true ;  for  a  person  who 
can  have  no  sympathy  with  Una,  and  Belphoebe,  and 
Florimel,  and  Amoret,  can  have  no  sympathy  with  the 
woman  in  women.  But  it  must  be  conceded,  that  though 
Shakespeare,  like  Spenser,  draws  his  women  from  ideal 
regions  of  existence,  he  has  succeeded  better  in  natural- 
izing them  on  the  planet.  The  creations  of  both  are 
characterized  by  remoteness ;  but  Shakespeare's  are' 
direct  perceptions  of  objects  ideally  remote,  and  strike 
us  both  by  their  naturalness  and  their  distance  from 
common  nature ;  Spenser  really  sees  the  objects  as 
distant,  and  sees  them  through  a  visionary  medium. 
The  strong-winged  Shakespeare  penetrates  to  the  region 
of  spiritual  facts  which  he  embodies ;  Spenser  surveys 
them  wonderingly  from  below.  Shakespeare  goes  up ; 
Spenser  looks  up ;  and  our  poet  therefore  lacks  the 
great  dramatist's  "familiar  grasp  of  things  divine." 

It  remains  to  be  said,  that  though  Spenser's  outward 
life  was  vexed  with  discontent,  and  fretted  by  his  resent- 
ment of  the  indifference  with  which  he  supposed  his 
claims  were  treated  by  the  great  and  powerful,  his  po- 
etry breathes  the  very  soul  of^ontentment  and  cheer. 
This  cheer  has  no  connection  with  mirth,  either  in  the 
form  of  wit  or  humor,  but  springs  from  his  perception 


220  SPENSER. 

of  an  ideal  of  life,  which  has  become  a  reality  to  his 
heart  and  imagination.  The  Faery  Queene  proves  that 
the  perception  of  the  Beautiful  can  make  the  heart 
more  abidingly  glad  than  the  perception  of  the  ludi- 
crous. In  the  soul  of  this  seer  and  singer,  who  shaped 
the  first  vague  dreams  and  unquiet  aspirations  of  the 
youth  into  beautiful  forms  to  solace  the  man,  there  is  a 
serene  depth  of  tender  joy,  ay,  "  a  sober  certainty  of 
waking  bliss  "  ;  and,  as  he  has  not  locked  up  in  his  own 
breast  this  precious  delight,  but  sent  it  in  vital  currents 
through  the  marvels  and  moralities  of  The  Faery 
Queene  to  refresh  the  world,  let  no  defects  which  criti- 
cism can  discern  hinder  the  reader  from  participating 
in  the  deep  satisfaction  of  that  happy  spirit  and  the 
visionary  glories  of  that  celestialized  imagination. 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

TN  the  present  chapter  we  propose  to  speak  of  a  few 
of  Spenser's  contemporaries  and  successors,  ■who 
were  rated  as  poets  in  their  own  generation,  how- 
ever neglected  they  may  be  in  ours.  We  shall  select 
those  who  have  some  pretensions  to  originality  of 
character  as  well  as  mind ;  and,  though  we  shall  not 
mention  all  who  claim  the  attention  of  students  of 
literary  history,  we  fear  we  shall  gain  the  gratitude 
of  the  reader  for  those  omitted,  rather  than  for  those 
included,  in  the  survey.  Sins  of  omission  are  some- 
times exalted  by  circumstances  into  a  high  rank  among 
the  negative  virtues. 

Among  the  minor  poets  of  this  era  were  two  imita- 
tors of  Spenser, —  Phineas  and  Giles  Fletcher.  They 
were  cousins  of  Fletcher  the  dramatist,  but  with  none 
of  his  wild  blood  in  their  veins,  and  none  of  his  flashing 
creativeness  in  their  souls,  to  give  evidence  of  the  rela- 
tionship. The  Purple  Island,  a  poem  in  twelve  cantos, 
by  Phineas,  is  a  long  allegorical  description  of  the  body 
and  soul  of  man,  perverse  in  design,  melodious  in  ver- 
sification, occasionally  felicitous   in  the   personification 


222  MINOK  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

of  abstract  qualities,  but  on  the  whole  to  be  considered 
as  an  exercise  of  boundless  ingenuity  to  produce  insuf- 
ferable tediousness.  Not  in  the  dissecting-room  itself  is 
anatomy  less  poetical  than  in  the  harmonious  stanzas 
of  The  Purple  Island.  Giles,  the  brother  of  Phineas, 
was  the  more  potent  spirit  of  the  two,  but  his  power  is 
often  directed  by  a  taste  even  more  elaborately  bad. 
His  poem  of  Christ's  Victory  and  Triumph,  in  parts 
almost  sublime,  in  parts  almost  puerile,  is  a  proof  that 
imaginative  fertility  may  exist  in  a  mind  with  little 
imaginative  grasp.  Campbell,  however,  considers  him 
a  connecting  link  between  Spenser  and  Milton. 

Samuel  Daniel,  another  poet  of  this  period,  was  the 
son  of  a  music-master,  and  was  born  in  1562.  Fuller 
says  of  him,  that  "  he  carried,  in  his  Christian  and  sur- 
name, two  holy  prophets,  his  monitors,  so  to  qualify  his 
raptures  that  he  abhorred  all  profaneness."  Amiable 
in  character,  gentle  in  disposition,  and  with  a  genius 
meditative  rather  than  energetic,  he  appears  to  have 
possessed  that  combination  of  qualities  which  makes  men 
personally  pleasing  if  it  does  not  make  them  perma- 
nently famous.  He  was  patronized  both  by  Ehzabeth 
and  James,  was  the  friend  of  Shakespeare  and  Cam- 
den, and  was  highly  esteemed  by  the  most  accomplished 
women  of  his  time.  A  most  voluminous  writer  in  prose 
and  verse,  he  was  distinguished  in  both  for  the  purity, 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  223 

simplicity,  and  elegance  of  his  diction.  Browne  calls 
him  "  the  well-languaged  Daniel."  But  if  he  avoided 
the  pedantry  and  quaintness  which  were  too  apt  to  viti- 
ate the  style  of  the  period,  and  wrote  what  might  be 
called  modern  English,  it  has  still  been  found  that  mod- 
ern Englishmen  cannot  be  coaxed  into  reading  what  is 
so  lucidly  written.  His  longest  work,  a  versified  His- 
tory of  the  Civil  "Wars,  dispassionate  as  a  chronicle  and 
unimpassioned  as  a  poem,  is  now  only  read  by  those 
critics  in  whom  the  sense  of  duty  is  victorious  over  the 
disposition  to  doze.  The  best  expressions  of  his  pen- 
sive, tender,  and  thoughtful  nature  are  his  epistles  and 
his  sonnets.  Among  the  epistles,  that  to  the  Countess 
of  Cumberland  is  the  best.  It  is  a  model  for  all  adula- 
tory addresses  to  women ;  indeed,  a  masterpiece  of 
subtile  compliment ;  for  it  assumes  in  its  object  a  sym- 
pathy with  whatever  is  noblest  in  sentiment,  and  an 
understanding  of  whatever  is  most  elevated  in  thought. 
The  sonnets,  first  published  in  1592,  in  his  thirtieth 
year,  record  the  strength  and  the  disappointment  of  a 
youthful  passion.  The  lady,  whom  he  addresses  under 
the  name  of  Delia,  refused  him,  it  is  said,  for  a  wealth- 
ier lover,  and  the  pang  of  this  baffled  affection  made 
him  wretched  for  years,  and  sent  him 

"  Haunting  untrodden  paths  to  wail  apart." 
Echo,  —  he  tells  us,  whUe  he  was  aiming  to  overcome 
the  indifference  of  the  maiden,  — 


224  MINOR   ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

"  Echo,  daughter  of  the  air, 

Babbling  guest  of  rocks  and  rills. 
Knows  the  name  of  my  fierce  fair, 
And  sounds  the  accents  of  my  ills." 

Througliout  the  sonnets,  the  matchless  perfection  of 
this  Delia  is  ever  connected  with  her  disdain  of  the 
poet  who  celebrates  it :  — 

"  Fair  is  my  love,  and  cruel  as  she 's  fair; 

Her  brow  shades  frowns,  although  her  eyes  are  sunny ; 
Her  smiles  are  lightning,  though  her  pride  despair ; 

And  her  disdains  are  gall,  her  favors  honey. 
A  modest  maid,  decked  with  a  blush  of  honor. 

Who  treads  along  green  paths  of  youth  and  love. 
The  wonder  of  all  eyes  that  gaze  upon  her. 

Sacred  on  earth,  designed  a  saint  above." 

This  picture  of  the  "  modest  maid,  decked  with  a 
blush  of  honor,"  is  exquisite  ;  but  it  is  still  a  picture, 
and  not  a  living  presence.  Shakespeare,  touching  the 
same  beautiful  object  with  his  life-imparting  imagination, 
suffuses  at  once  the  sense  and  soul  with  a  feeling  of  the 
vital  reality,  when  he  describes  the  French  princess  as 
a  "  maiden  rosed  over  with  the  virgin  crimson  of  mod- 
esty." 

The  richest  and  most  elaborately  fanciful  of  these 
sonnets  is  that  in  which  the  poet  calls  upon  his  mistress 
to  give  back  her  perfections  to  the  objects  from  which 
she  derived  them  :  — 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  225 

"  Restore  thy  tresses  to  the  golden  ore ; 

Yield  Cytherea's  son  those  arcs  of  love; 
Bequeath  the  heavens  the  stars  that  I  adore ; 

And  to  the  orient  do  thy  pearls  remove. 
Yield  thy  hand's  pride  unto  the  ivory  white ; 

To  Arabian  odors  give  thy  breathing  sweet; 
Restore  thy  blush  unto  Aurora  bright; 

To  Thetis  give  the  honor  of  thy  feet. 
Let  Venus  have  thy  graces,  her  resigned; 

And  thy  sweet  voice  give  back  unto  the  spheres ; 
But  yet  restore  thy  fierce  and  cruel  mind 

To  HjTcan  tigers  and  to  ruthless  bears ; 
Yield  to  the  marble  thy  hard  heart  again ; 

So  shalt  thou  cease  to  plague  and  I  to  pain." 

There  is  a  fate  in  love.  This  man,  who  could  not 
conquer  the  insensibility  of  one  country  girl,  was  the 
honored  friend  of  the  noblest  and  most  celebrated  wo- 
man of  his  age.  Eventually,  at  the  age  of  forty,  he 
was  married  to  a  sister  of  John  Florio,  to  whom  his 
own  sister,  the  Rosalind  who  jilted  Spenser,  is  supposed 
to  have  been  previously  united.  He  died  in  retirement, 
in  1619,  in  his  fifty -eighth  year. 

A  more  powerful  and  a  more  prolific  poet  than  Daniel 
was  Michael  Drayton,  who  rhymed  steadily  for  some 
forty  years,  and  produced  nearly  a  hundred  thousand 
lines.  The  son  of  a  butcher,  and  born  about  the  year 
1563,  he  early  exhibited  an  innocent  desire  to  be  a  poet, 
and  his  first  request  to  his  tutor  at  college  was  to  make 
10*  o 


226  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

him  one.  Like  Daniel,  he  enjoyed  the  friendship  and 
patronage  of  the  noble  favorers  of  learning  and  genius. 
His  character  seems  to  have  been  irreproachable.  Meres, 
in  his  Wit's  Treasury,  says  of  him,  that  among  all  sorts 
of  people  "  he  is  held  as  a  man  of  virtuous  disposition, 
honest  conversation,  and  well-governed  carriage,  which 
is  almost  miraculous  among  good  wits  in  these  tieclin- 
ing  and  corrupt  times,  when  there  is  nothing  but  roguery 
in  villanous  man,  and  when  cheating  and  craftiness  is 
counted  the  cleanest  wit  and  soundest  wisdom."  But 
the  market-value,  both  of  his  poetry  and  virtue,  was 
small,  and  he  seems  to  have  been  always  on  bad  terms 
with  the  booksellers.  His  poems,  we  believe,  wei'e  the 
first  which  arrived  at  second  editions  by  the  simple 
process  of  merely  reprinting,  with  additions,  the  title- 
pages  of  the  first,  —  a  fact  which  is  ominous  of  his  bad 
success  with  the  public.  The  defect  of  his  mind  was 
not  the  lack  of  materials,  but  the  lack  of  taste  to  select, 
and  imagination  to  fuse,  his  materials.  His  poem  of 
The  Barons'  Wars  is  a  metrical  chronicle  ;  his  Poly- 
Olbion  is  an  enormous  piece  of  metrical  topography, 
extending  to  thirty  thousand  twelve-syllabled  lines.  In 
neither  poem  does  he  view  his  subject  from  an  emi- 
nence, but  doggedly  follows  the  course  of  events  and 
the  succession  of  objects.  As  a  description  of  Eng- 
land, the  Poly-Olbion  is  in  general  so  accurate  that  it  is 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  227 

quoted  as  authority  by  such  antiquaries  as  Hearne  and 
Wood  and  Nicholson.  Campbell  has  feUcitously  touched 
its  fatal  defect  in  saying  that  Drayton  "chained  his  po- 
etry to  the  map."  The  only  modern  critic  who  seems 
to  have  followed  all  its  wearisome  details  with  loving 
enthusiasm  is  Charles  Lamb,  who  speaks  of  Drayton  as 
that  "panegyrist  of  my  native  earth  who  has  gone  over 
her  soil  with  the  fidelity  of  a  herald  and  the  painful 
love  of  a  son ;  who  has  not  left  a  rivulet  (so  naiTow 
that  it  may  be  stepped  over)  without  honorable  men- 
tion ;  and  has  animated  hills  and  streams  with  life  and 
passion  above  the  dreams  of  old  mythology."  But,  in 
spite  of  this  warm  commendation,  the  essential  difficulty 
with  the  Poly-Olbion  is,  that,  with  all  its  merits,  it  is 
unreadable.  The  poetic  feeling,  the  grace,  the  fresh- 
ness, the  pure,  bright,  and  vigorous  diction,  which  char- 
acterize it,  appear  to  more  advantage  in  the  poet's  minor 
pieces,  where  his  subjects  are  less  unwieldy,  and  the 
vivacity  of  his  fancy  makes  us  forget  his  lack  of  high 
imagination.  His  fairy  poem  of  Nymphidia,  for  in- 
stance, is  one  of  the  most  deliciously  fanciful  creations 
in  the  language ;  and  many  of  his  smaller  pieces  have 
the  point  and  sparkle  of  Carew's  and  Suckling's.  In 
his  longer  poems,  too,  we  frequently  light  upon  passages 
as  perfect  of  their  kind  as  this  description  of  Queen 
Isabella's  hand :  — 


228  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

"  She  laid  her  fingers  on  his  manly  cheek, 

The  God's  pure  sceptres  and  the  darts  of  love, 

That  with  their  touch  might  make  a  tiger  meek, 
Or  might  great  Atlas  from  his  seat  remove, 

So  white,  so  soft,  so  delicate,  so  sleek, 
As  she  had  worn  a  lily  for  a  glove." 

A  more  popular  poet  than  Daniel,  or  Drayton,  or  the 
Fletchers,  was  William  Warner,  an  attorney  of  the  Court 
of  Common  Pleas,  who  was  born  about  the  year  1558, 
and  who  died  in  1G09.  His  Albion's  England,  a  poem 
of  some  ten  thousand  verses,  was  published  in  1586, 
ran  through  six  editions  in  sixteen  years,  and  died 
out  of  the  memory  of  mankind  with  the  last,  in  1612. 
After  having  conscientiously  waded  through  immense 
masses  of  uninteresting  rhyme,  as  we  have  been  com- 
pelled to  do  in  the  preparation  of  these  notices,  we 
confess,  with  a  not  unmalicious  exultation,  that  we 
know  Warner's  poem  only  by  description  and  extracts. 
Albion  is  an  ancient  name  for  Great  Britain ;  and  Al- 
bion's England  is  a  metrical  history  —  "  not  barren,"  in 
the  author's  own  words,  "  of  inventive  intermixtures  " 
—  of  the  southern  portion  of  the  island,  beginning  at 
the  deluge,  and  ending  with  the  reign  of  James  I.  As 
James  might  have  said,  "  After  me  the  deluge,"  Warner's 
poem  may  be  considered  as  ending  in  some  such  catas- 
trophe as  that  with  which  it  begins.  The  merit  of 
Warner  is  that  of  a  story-teller,  and  he  reached  classes 


mNOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  229 

of  readers  to  whom  Spenser  was  hardly  known  by 
name.  The  work  is  a  strange  mixture  of  comic  and 
tragic  fact  and  fable,  exceedingly  gross  in  parts, 
with  little  power  of  imagination  or  grace  of  language, 
but  possessing  the  great  popular  excellence  of  de- 
scribing persons  and  incidents  in  the  fewest  and  sim- 
plest words.  The  best  story  is  that  of  Argentile  and 
Curan,  and  it  is  told  as  briefly  as  though  it  were 
intended  for  transmission  by  telegraph  at  the  cost  of 
a  dollar  a  word.  Warner  has  some  occasional  touches 
of  nature  and  pathos  which  almost  rival  the  old  ballads 
for  directness  and  intensity  of  feeling.  The  most  re- 
markable of  these,  condensed  in  two  of  his  long  four- 
teen-syllabled  lines,  is  worth  all  the  rest  of  his  poems. 
It  occurs  in  his  description  of  Queen  Eleanor  striking 
the   Fair  Rosamond. 

"  With  that  she  dashed  her  on  the  lips,  so  dy^d  double  red : 
Hard  was  tlie  heart  that  gave  the  blow,  soft  were  those  lips  that 
bled." 

It  is  a  rapid  transition  from  "Warner,  the  poet  of 
the  populace,  to  Donne,  the  poet  of  the  metaphysicians, 
but  the  range  of  the  Elizabethan  literature  is  full 
of  contrasts.     In  the  words  of  the  satirist,  Donne  is  a 

poet 

"  Whose  muse  on  dromedary  trots, 
Wreathes  iron  pokers  into  trae-love-knots ; 


230  MINOR   ELIZABETHAN   POETS. 

Ehyme's  sturdy  cripple,  fancy's  maze  and  clew, 
Wit's  forge  and  fire-blast,  meaning's  press  and  screw. 

See  lewdness  with  theology  combined,  — 

A  cynic  and  a  sycophantic  mind, 

A  fancy  shared  party  per  pale  between 

Death's-heads  and  skeletons  and  Aretine !  — 

Not  his  peculiar  defect  and  crime. 

But  the  true  cuiTent  mintage  of  the  time. 

Such  were  the  established  signs  and  tokens  given 

To  mark  a  loyal  churchman,  sound  and  even. 

Free  from  papistic  and  fanatic  leaven." 

John  Donne,  the  heterogeneous  qualities  of  whose  intel- 
lect and  chai'acter  are  thus  mahciously  sketched,  was. 
one  of  the  sti'angest  of  versifiers,  sermonizers,  and  men. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  London  merchant,  and 
was  born  in  1573.  One  of  those  youthful  prodigies 
who  have  an  appetite  for  learning  as  other  Hoys  have 
for  cakes  and  plums,  he  was,  at  the  age  of  eleven, 
sufficiently  advanced  in  his  studies  to  enter  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford,  where  he  remained  three  years. 
He  was  then  transferred  to  Cambridge.  His  classical 
and  mathematical  education  being  thus  completed,  he, 
at  the  age  of  seventeen,  was  admitted  into  Lincoln's  Inn 
to  study  the  law.  His  relations  being  Roman  Catholics, 
he  abandoned  the  law  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  in  order 
to  make  an  elaborate  examination  of  the  points  in  dis- 
pute between  the  Romanists  and  the  Reformers.     Hav- 


MINOR   ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  231 

ing  in  a  year's  time  exhausted  this  controversy,  he 
spent  several  years  in  travelUng  in  Italy  and  Spain. 
On  his  return  to  England  he  became  chief  secretary 
of  Lord  Chancellor  EUesmere,  —  and  held  the  office 
five  years.  It  was  probably  during  the  period  be- 
tween his  twentieth  and  thirtieth  years  that  most  of 
his  secular  poetry  was  written,  and  that  his  nature  took 
its  decided  eccentric  twist.  An  insatiable  intellectual 
curiosity  seems,  up  to  this  time,  to  have  been  his  leading 
characteristic ;  and  as  this  led  him  to  all  kinds  of  liter- 
ature for  mental  nutriment,  his  faculties,  in  their  forma- 
tion, were  inlaid  with  the  oddest  varieties  of  opinions  and 
crotchets.  With  vast  learning,  with  a  subtile  and  pene- 
trating intellect,  with  a  fancy  singularly  fruitful  and 
ingenious,  he  still  contrived  to  disconnect,  more  or  less, 
his  learning  from  what  was  worth  learning,  his  intellect 
from  what  was  reasonable,  his  fancy  from  wliat  was 
beautiful.  His  poems,  or  rather  his  metrical  problems, 
are  obscure  in  thought,  rugged  in  versification,  and  full 
of  conceits  which  are  intended  to  surprise  rather  than  to 
please ;  but  they  still  exhibit  a  power  of  intellect,  both 
analytical  and  analogical,  competent  at  once  to  separate 
the  minutest  and  connect  the  remotest  ideas.  This 
power,  while  it  might  not  have  given  his  poems  grace, 
sweetness,  freshness,  and  melody,  would  still,  if  properly 
directed,  have  made  them  valuable  for  their  thoughts ; 


232  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

but  in  the  case  of  Donne  it  is  perverted  to  the  production 
of  what  is  bizarre  or  unnatural,  and  his  muse  is  thus  as 
hostile  to  use  as  to  beauty.  The  intention  is,  not  to 
idealize  what  is  true,  but  to  display  the  writer's  skill  " 
and  wit  in  giving  a  show  of  reason  to  what  is  false. 
The  effect  of  this  on  the  moral  character  of  Donne  was 
pernicious.  A  subtile  intellectual  scepticism,  which 
weakened  will,  divorced  thought  from  action  and  liter- 
ature from  life,  and  made  existence  a  puzzle  and  a 
dream,  resulted  from  this  perversion  of  his  intellect. 
He  found  that  he  could  wittily  justify  what  was  vicious 
as  well  as  what  was  unnatural  ;  and  his  amatory  poems, 
accordingly,  are  characterized  by  a  cold,  hard,  labored, 
intellectuahzed  sensuality,  worse  than  the  worst  im- 
pui'ity  of  his  contemporaries,  because  it  has  no  excuse 
of  passion  for  its  violations  of  decency. 

But  now  happened  an  event  which  proved  how  little 
the  talents  and  accomplishments  of  this  voluptuary  of 
intellectual  conceits  were  competent  to  serve  him  in  a 
grapple  with  the  realities  of  life.  Lady  EUesmere 
had  a  niece,  the  daughter  of  Sir  George  Moore, 
with  whom  Donne  fell  in  love ;  and  as,  according 
to  Izaak  Walton,  his  behavior,  when  it  would  entice, 
had  "  a  strange  kind  of  elegant,  irresistible  art,"  he  in- 
duced her  to  consent  to  a  private  marriage,  without  the 
knowledge  of  her  father.    Izaak  accounts  for  this  on 


MIXOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  233 

the  perhaps  tenable  ground,  "  that  love  is  a  flattering 
mischief,  that  hath  denied  aged  and  wise  men  a  foresight 
of  those  evils  that  too  often  prove  to  be  children  of  that 
blind  father ;  a  passion  that  carries  us  to  commit  errors 
with  as  much  ease  as  whirlwinds  move  feathers,  and  be- 
gets in  us  an  unwearied  industry  to  the  attainment  of 
what  we  desire."  But  Sir  George  Moore,  the  father  of 
the  lady,  an  arrogant,  avaricious,  and  passionate  brute, 
was  so  enraged  at  the  match,  that  he  did  not  rest  until 
he  had  induced  Lord  Ellesmere  to  dismiss  Donne  from 
his  service,  and  until  he  had  placed  his  son-in-law  in 
prison.  Although  Sir  George,  compelled  to  submit  to 
what  was  inevitable,  became  at  last  reconciled  to  Donne, 
he  refused  to  contribute  anything  towards  his  daughter's 
maintenance.  As  Donne's  own  fortune  had  been  by 
this  time  all  expended  in  travel,  books,  and  other  intel- 
lectual dissipations,  and  as  he  had  been  deprived  of  his 
office,  he  was  now  stripped  of  everything  but  his  power 
of  framing  conceits  ;  and.  accordingly,  in  a  dismal  letter 
to  his  wife,  recounting  his  miseries,  he  has  nothing  but 
this  quibble  to  support  her  under  afl[liction :  "  John 
Donne,  Ann  Donne,  Undone."  A  charitable  kinsman 
of  the  EUesmercs,  however,  Sir  Francis  Welly,  see- 
ing the  helplessness  of  this  man  of  brain,  took  him 
and  his  wife  into  his  own  house.  Here  they  resided 
until  the  death  of   their  benefactor,  Donne   occupying 


234  MINOE  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

his  time  in  studying  the  civil  and  canon  laws,  and 
probably  also  in  composing  his  Thesis  on  Self-Homicide, 
—  a  work  in  which  his  ingenuity  is  thought  to  have  de- 
vised some  excuses  for  suicide,  but  the  reading  of  which, 
according  to  Hallam,  would  induce  no  man  to  kill  him- 
self unless  he  were  threatened  with  another  volume. 

During  his  residence  with  Sir  Francis  WoUy,  Donne, 
whose  acquirements  in  theology  were  immense,  was 
offered  a  benefice  by  Dr.  Morton,  then  Dean  of  Glou- 
cester ;  but  he  declined  to  enter  the  Church,  from  a 
feehng  of  spiritual  unfitness.  It  is  probable  that  his 
habits  of  intellectual  self-indulgence,  while  they  really 
weakened  his  conscience,  made  it  morbidly  acute.  He 
would  not  adopt  the  pi'ofession  of  law  or  divinity  for  a 
subsistence,  though  he  was  willing  to  depend  for  sub- 
sistence on  the  charity  of  others.  Izaak  Walton  praises 
his  humility ;  but  Donne's  humility  was  only  another 
name  for  indisposition  to  practical  labor,  —  a  humility 
which  makes  self-depreciation  an  excuse  for  moral  lazi- 
ness, and  shrinks  as  nervously  from  duty  as  from  pride. 
Both  law  and  divinity,  therefore,  he  continued  to  make 
the  luxuries  of  his  existence. 

In  good  time  this  selfish  intellectuality  resulted  in 
that  worst  of  intellectual  diseases,  mental  disgust.  After 
the  death  of  his  patron,  his  father-in-law  allowed  him 
eighty  pounds  a  year  to  support  his  family.     Sickness 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  235 

and  affliction  and  comparative  poverty  came  to  wake 
him  from  his  dream  and  reveal  him  to  himself.  In  some 
aflfecting  letters,  which  have  been  preserved,  he  moans 
over  his  moral  inefficiency,  and  confesses  to  an  "  over- 
earnest  desire  for  the  next  life,"  to  escape  from  the  per- 
plexities of  this.  "  I  grow  older,""  he  says,  "  and  not 
better ;  my  strength  diminisheth,  and  my  load  grows 
heavier ;  and  yet  I  would  fain  be  or  do  something  ;  but 
that  I  cannot  tell  what,  is  no  wonder  in  this  time  of  my 
sadness  ;  for  to  choose  is  to  do  ;  but  to  be  no  part  of  any 
body  is  as  to  be  nothing  :  and  so  I  am,  and  shall  so 
judge  myself,  unless  I  could  be  so  incorporated  into  a 
part  of  the  world  as  by  business  to  contribute  some  sus- 
tenation  to  the  whole.  This  I  made  account ;  I  began 
early,  when  I  undertook  the  study  of  our  laws  ;  but  was 
diverted  by  leaving  that,  and  embracing  the  worst 
voluptuousness,  an  hydroptic  immoderate  desire  of  hu- 
man learning  and  languages Now  I  am  become 

so  little,  or  such  a  nothing,  that  I  am  not  a  subject  good 

enough  for  one  of  my  own  letters I  am  rather  a 

sickness  or  disease  of  the  world  than  any  part  of  it,  and 
therefore  neither  love  it  nor  life."  And  he  closes  with 
the  words,  "  Your  poor  friend  and  God's  poor  patient, 
John  Donne." 

And  this  was  the  mental  state  to  which  Donne  was 
reduced  by  thirty  years  of  incessant  study,  —  of  study 


236  MINOR   ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

thai  sought  only  the  gratification  of  intellectual  caprice 
and  of  intellectual  curiosity,  —  of  study  without  a  practi- 
cal object.  From  this  wretched  mood  of  self-disgust 
and  disgust  with  existence,  this  fret  of  thought  at  the 
impotence  of  will,  we  may  date  Donne's  gradual  eman- 
cipation from  his  besetting  sins  ;  for  life,  at  such  a  point 
of  spiritual  experience,  is  only  possible  under  the  form 
of  a  new  life.  His  theological  studies  and  meditations 
were  now  probably  directed  more  to  the  building-up  of 
character,  and  less  to  the  pandering  to  his  gluttonous 
intellectuality.  His  recovery  was  a  work  of  years  ;  and 
it  is  doubtful  if  he  would  ever  have  chosen  a  profession, 
if  King  James,  delighted  with  his  views  regarding  the 
questions  of  supremacy  and  allegiance,  and  amazed  at 
his  opulence  in  what  was  then  called  learning,  had  not 
insisted  on  his  entering  the  Church.  After  much  hesi- 
tation and  long  preparation,  Donne  yielded  to  the  royal 
command.  He  was  successively  made  Chaplain  in  Or- 
dinary, Lecturer  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  Dean  of  St. 
Paul's,  was  soon  recognized  as  one  of  the  ablest  and 
most  eloquent  preachers  of  his  time,  and  impressed  those 
who  sat  under  his  ministrations,  not  merely  with  admi- 
ration for  his  genius,  but  with  reverence  for  his  holy  life 
and  almost  ascetic  self-denial.  The  profession  he  had 
adopted  with  so  much  self-distrust  he  came  to  love  with 
such  fervor  that  his  expressed  wish  was,  to  die  in  the 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  237 

pulpit,  or  ia  consequence  of  his  labors  therein.  This 
last  wish  was  granted  in  1631,  in  his  fifty-eighth  year; 
"  and  that  body,"  says  "Walton  with  quaint  pathos, 
"  which  once  was  a  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost "  now 
became  "  but  a  small  quantity  of  Christian  dust." 

Donne's  published  sermons  are  in  form  nearly  as 
grotesque  as  his  poems,  though  they  are  characterized 
by  profounder  qualities  of  heart  and  mind.  It  was  his 
misfortune  to  know  thoroughly  the  works  of  fourteen 
hundred  writers,  most  of  them  necessarily  worthless ; 
and  he  could  not  help  displaying  his  erudition  in  his 
discourses.  Of  what  is  now  called  taste  he  was  ab- 
solutely destitute.  His  sermons  are  a  curious  mosaic  of 
quaintness,  quotation,  wisdom,  puerility,  subtilty,  and 
ecstasy.  The  pedant  and  the  seer  possess  him  by  turns, 
and  in  reading  no  other  divine  are  our  transitions  from 
yawning  to  rapture  so  swift  and  unexpected.  He  has 
passages  of  transcendent  merit,  passages  which  evince  a 
spiritual  vision  so  piercing,  and  a  feeling  of  divine 
things  so  intense,  that  for  the  time  we  seem  to  be  com- 
muning with  a  religious  genius  of  the  most  exalted  and 
exalting  order ;  but  soon  he  involves  us  in  a  maze  of 
quotations  and  references,  and  our  minds  are  hustled  by 
■what  Hallara  calls  "  the  rabble  of  bad  authors "  that 
this  saint  and  sage  has  always  at  his  skirts,  even  when 
he   ascends   to   the   highest  heaven   of  contemplation. 


238  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

Doubtless  what  displeases  this  age  added  to  his  reputa- 
tion in  his  own.  Donne  was  more  pedantic  than  his 
clerical  contemporaries  only  because  he  had  more  of 
that  thought-suffocating  learning  which  all  of  them  re- 
garded with  irrational  respect.  One  of  the  signs  of 
Bacon's  superiority  to  his  age  was  the  cool  audacity 
with  which  he  assailed  sophists,  simpletons,  bigots,  and 
liars,  even  though  they  wrote  in  Latin  and  Greek. 

A  poet  as  intellectual  as  Donne,  but  whose  intelligence 
was  united  to  more  manliness  and  efficiency,  was  Sir 
John  Davies.  He  was  born  in  1570,  and  was  educated 
for  the  law.  The  first  we  hear  of  him,  after  he  had 
been  called  to  the  bar,  was  his  expulsion^ from  the  So- 
ciety of  the  Middle  Temple,  for  quarrelling  with  one 
Richard  Martin  and  giving  him  a  sound  beating.  This 
was  in  1598.  The  next  recorded  fact  of  his  biography 
was  the  publication,  a  year  afterwards,  of  his  poem  on 
the  Immortality  of  the  Soul.  A  man  who  thus  com- 
bined so  much  pugilistic  with  so  much  philosophic 
power  could  not  be  long  kept  down  in  a  country  so  full 
of  fight  and  thought  as  England.  He  was  soon  re- 
stored to  his  profession,  won  the  esteem  both  of  Eliza- 
beth and  James,  held  high  offices  in  Ireland,  and  in 
1G2G  was  appointed  Chief  Justice  of  England,  but  died 
of  apoplexy  before  he  was  sworn  in. 

The  two  works  on  which  his  fame  as  a  poet  rests  are 


MINOE  ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  239 

on  the  widely  different  themes  of  Dancing,  and  the  Im- 
mortality of  the  Soul.  The  first  is  in  the  form  of  a 
dialogue  between  Penelope  and  one  of  her  wooers,  and 
most  melodiously  expresses  "  the  antiquity  and  excel- 
lence of  dancing."  Only  in  the  Elizabethan  age  could 
such  a  great  effort  of  intellect,  learning,  and  fancy  have 
arisen  from  the  trifling  incident  of  asking  a  lady  to 
dance.  It  was  left  unfinished  ;  and,  indeed,  as  it  is  the 
object  of  the  wooer  to  prove  to  Penelope  that  dancing 
is  the  law  of  nature  and  life,  the  poem  could  only  be 
brought  to  an  end  by  the  exhaustion  of  the  writer's  in- 
genuity in  devising  subtile  analogies  for  the  wooer  and 
answers  as  subtile  from  Penelope,  who  aids 

"  The  music  of  her  tongue 
With  the  sweet  speech  of  her  alluring  eyes." 

To  think  logically  from  his  premises  was  the  necessity 
of  Davies's  mind.  In  the  poem  on  Dancing  the  pre- 
mises are  fanciful ;  in  the  poem  on  the  Immortality  of 
the  Soul  the  premises  are  real ;  but  the  reasoning  in 
both  is  equally  exact.  It  is  usual  among  critics,  even 
such  critics  as  Hallam  and  Campbell,  to  decide  that  the 
imaginative  power  of  the  poem  on  the  Immortality  of 
the  Soul  consists  in  the  illustration  of  the  arguments 
rather  than  in  the  perception  of  the  premises.  But  the 
truth  would  seem  to  be  that  the  author  exhibits  his 
imagination  more  in  his  insight  than  in  his  imagery. 


240  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

The  poetic  excellence  of  the  work  comes  from  the 
power  of  clear,  steady  beholding  of  spiritual  facts  with 
the  spiritual  eye,  —  of  beholding  them  so  clearly  that 
the  task  of  stating,  illustrating,  and  reasoning  from  them 
is  performed  with  masterly  ease.  In  truth,  the  great 
writers  of  the  time  helieved  in  the  soul's  immortality,  be- 
cause they  were  conscious  of  having  souls  ;  the  height 
of  their  thinking  was  due  to  the  fact  that  the  soul 
was  always  in  the  premises ;  and  thought,  with  them, 
included  imaginative  vision  as  well  as  dialectic  skill. 
From  a  lower  order  of  minds  than  Shakespeare,  Hooker, 
and  Bacon,  than  Chapman,  Sidney,  and  Davies,  proceed 
the  theories  of  materialism,  for  no  thinking  from  the 
soul  can  deny  the  soul's  existence.  It  is  curious  to  ob- 
serve the  advantage  which  Davies  holds  over  his  ma- 
terialistic opponents,  through  the  circumstance  that,  while 
his  logical  understanding  is  as  well  furnished  as  theirs,  it 
reposes  on  central  ideas  and  deep  experiences  which  they 
either  want  or  ignore.  No  adequate  idea  of  the  general 
gravity  and  grandeur  of  his  thinking  can  be  conveyed 
by  short  extracts ;  yet,  opening  the  poem  at  the  fourth 
section,  devoted  to  the  demonstration  that  the  soul  is  a 
spirit,  we  will  quote  a  few  of  his  resounding  quatrains 
in  illustration  of  his  manner  :  — 

"  For  she  all  natures  under  heaven  doth  pass, 

Being  like  those  spirits  which  God's  face  do  see, 


MINOR   ELIZABETHAN   POETS.  241 

Or  like  himself,  whose  image  once  she  was, 
Though  now,  alas !  she  scarce  his  shadow  be. 

"  Were  she  a  body,  how  could  she  remain 
Within  the  bodj!-  which  is  less  than  she? 
Or  how  could  she  the  Avorld's  great  shape  contain, 
And  in  our  narrow  breasts  contained  be  ? 

"  All  bodies  are  confined  within  some  place. 
But  she  all  place  within  herself  confines; 
All  bodies  have  their  measm'e  and  their  space ; 
But  who  can  draw  the  soul's  dimensive  Imes?  " 

The  next  poet  we  shall  mention  was  a  link  of  con- 
nection between  the  age  of  Elizabeth  and  Cromwell ; 
a  contemporary  equally  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton ; 
a  man  whose  first  work  was  published  ten  years  before 
Shakespeare  had  produced  his  greatest  tragedies,  and 
who,  later  in  life,  defended  Episcopacy  against  Milton. 
We  refer  of  coui'se  to  Joseph  Hall.  He  was  born  in 
1574,  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  and  in  1597,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-three,  published  his  satires.  Originally 
intended  for  the  Church,  he  was  now  presented  with  a 
living  by  Sir  Robert  Drury,  who  was  also  a  munificent 
patron  of  Donne.  He  rose  gradually  to  preferment, 
was  made  Bishop  of  Exeter  in  1 627,  and  translated  to 
the  see  of  Norwich  in  1641.  In  1643  he  was  deprived 
of  his  place  and  revenue  by  the  Parliamentary  Com- 
mittee of  Sequestration,  and  died  in  1656,  in  his  eighty- 
11  p 


242  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

second  year.  As  a  churchman,  he  was  in  favor  of 
moderate  measures,  and  he  had  the  rare  good  fortune 
to  oppose  Archbishop  Laud,  and  to  suffer  under  Oliver 
CromwelL 

As  a  satirist,  if  we  reject  the  claim  of  Gascoigne  to 
precedence,  he  was  the  earliest  that  English  literature 
can  boast.     In  his  own  words, 

"  I  first  adventure :  follow  me  who  list, 
And  be  the  second  English  satirist." 

He  had  two  qualifications  for  his  chosen  task,  —  pene- 
trating observation  and  unshrinking  courage.  The  fol- 
lies and  vices,  the  manners,  prejudices,  delusions,  and 
crimes  of  his  time,  form  the  materials  of  his  satires; 
and  these  he  lashes,  or  laughs  at,  according  as  the  sub- 
ject-matter provokes  his  indignation  or  his  contempt. 
"  Sith,"  he  says  in  his  Preface,  "  faults  loathe  nothing 
more  than  the  light,  and  men  love  nothing  more  than 
their  faults,"  it  follows  that,  "  what  with  the  nature  of 
the  faults  and  the  faults  of  the  persons,"  it  is  impossible 
"  that  so  violent  an  appeachment  should  be  quietly 
brooked."  But  to  those  who  are  offended  he  vouchsafes 
but  this  curt  and  cutting  defence  of  his  plain-speaking : 
"  Art  thou  guilty  ?  Complain  not,  thou  art  not  wronged. 
Art  thou  guiltless  ?  Complain  not,  thou  art  not  touched." 
These  satires,  however,  striking  as  they  are  for  their 


MINOR   ELIZABETHAN   POETS.  243 

compactness  of  language  and  vigor  of  characterization, 
convey  but  an  inadequate  idea  of  the  depth,  devoutness, 
and  largeness  of  soul  displayed  in  Hall's  theological 
writings.  His  Meditations,  especially,  have  been  read 
by  thousands  who  never  heard  of  him  as  a  tart  and 
caustic  wit.  But  the  one  characteristic  of  sententious- 
ness  marks  equally  the  sarcasm  of  the  youthful  satirist 
and  the  raptures  of  the  aged  saint. 

The  next  writer  we  shall  consider,  Sir  Henry  "Wotton, 
possessed  one  of  the  most  accomplished  and  enlightened 
minds  of  the  age,  though,  unhappily  for  us,  he  has  left 
few  records  of  it  in  literature.  He  was  born  in  15G8, 
educated  at  Oxford,  and,  leaving  the  university  in  his 
twenty-second  year,  passed  nine  years  in  travelling  in 
Germany  and  Italy.  On  his  return  his  conversation 
showed  such  wit  and  information  that  it  was  said  to  be 
"  one  of  the  delights  of  mankind."  He  entered  the 
service  of  the  Earl  of  Essex,  and,  on  the  discovery 
of  the  Earl's  treason,  prudently  escaped  to  the  Conti- 
nent. While  in  Italy  he  rendered  a  great  service  to 
the  Scottish  King ;  and  James,  on  his  accession  to  the 
English  throne,  knighted  him,  and  sent  him  as  ambas- 
sador to  Venice.  He  remained  abroad  over  twenty 
years.  On  his  return  he  was  made  provost  of  Eton 
College.     He  died  in  1G39,  in  his  seventy-first  year. 

Wotton  is  one  of  the  few  Englishmen  who  have  sue- 


244  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

ceeded  in  divesting  themselves  of  English  prejudices 
without  at  the  same  time  divesting  themselves  of  Eng- 
lish virtues.  He  was  a  man  of  the  world  of  the  kind 
described  by  Bacon,  —  a  man  "  whose  heart  was  not 
cut  off  from  other  men's  lands,  but  a  continent  that 
joined  to  them."  One  of  the  ablest  and  most  sagacious 
diplomatists  that  England  ever  sent  abroad  to  match 
Italian  craft  with  Saxon  sense,  he  was  at  the  same  time 
chivalrous,  loyal,  and  true.  Though  the  author  of  the 
satirical  definition  of  an  ambassador,  as  "  an  honest 
man  sent  to  lie  abroad  for  the  commonwealth,"  his  own 
course  was  the  opposite  of  falsehood.  Indeed,  he  laid 
this  down  as  an  infallible  aphorism  to  guide  an  English 
ambassador,  that  he  should  always  tell  the  truth :  first, 
because  he  will  secure  himself  if  called  to  account ;  sec- 
ond, because  he  will  never  be  believed,  and  he  will  thus 
"  put  his  adversaries,  who  will  ever  hunt  counter,  at  a 
loss."  One  of  his  many  accomplishments  was  the  art 
of  saying  pointed  things  in  pithy  language.  At  Rome, 
a  priest  asked  him,  "  Where  was  your  religion  be- 
fore Luther  ? "  To  which  Wotton  answered,  "  My 
religion  was  to  be  found  then  where  yours  is  not  to 
be  found  now,  —  in  the  written  Word  of  God."  He 
then  put  to  the  priest  this  question :  "  Do  you  be- 
lieve all  those  many  thousands  of  poor  Christians 
were  damned,  that  were  excommunicated  because  the 


MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  245 

Pope  and  the  Duke  of  Venice  could  not  agree  about 
their  temporal  power,  —  even  those  poor  Christians 
that  knew  not  why  they  quarrelled  ?  Speak  your  con- 
science." The  priest's  reply  was,  "  Monsieur,  excuse 
me."  Wotton's  own  Protestantism,  however,  did  not 
consist,  like  that  of  too  many  others  of  his  time  and 
of  ours,  in  hating  Romanists.  He  was  once  asked 
whether  a  papist  may  be  saved.  His  answer  was : 
"  You  may  be  saved  without  knowing  that.  Look  to 
yourself."  The  spirit  of  this  reply  is  of  the  inmost 
essence  of  toleration. 

Cowley,  in  his  elegy  on  Wotton,  has  touched  wittily 
on  those  felicities  of  his  nature  and  culture  which  made 
him  so  admired  by  his  contemporaries  :  — 

"  What  shall  we  say  ?  since  silent  now  is  he, 
Who  when  he  spoke,  all  things  would  silent  be ; 
Who  had  so  many  languages  in  store, 
That  only  fame  shall  speak  of  him  in  more ; 
Whom  England  now  no  more  returned  must  see: 
He 's  gone  to  heaven  on  his  fourth  embassy. 

So  well  he  imderstood  the  most  and  best 
Of  tongues  —  that  Babel  sent  into  the  west,  — 
Spoke  them  so  truly,  that  he  had,  you  'd  swear, 
Not  only  lived  but  been  born  everywhere. 

Nor  ought  the  language  of  that  man  be  less, 
Who  in  his  breast  had  all  things  to  express." 


246  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

As  a  poet  Sir  Henry  "Wotton  is  universally  known  by 
one  exquisite  little  poem,  The  Character  of  a  Happy 
Life,  which  is  in  all  hymn-books.  The  general  drift 
of  his  poetry  is,  to  expose  the  hoUowness  of  all  the  ob- 
jects to  which  as  a  statesman  and  courtier  the  greater 
portion  of  his  own  life  was  devoted.  His  verses  are 
texts  for  discourses,  uniting  economy  of  words  with  ful- 
ness of  thought  and  sentiment.  His  celebrated  epitaph 
on  a  married  couple  is  condensed  to  the  point  of  con- 
verting feeling  into  wit. 

"  He  first  deceased.     She,  for  a  little,  tried 
To  do  Avithout  him,  liked  it  not,  and  died." 

In  one  of  his  hymns  he  has  this  startling  image  :  — 

"  No  hallowed  oils,  no  gums  I  need, 
No  new-bom  drams  of  purging  fire ; 
One  rosy  drop  from  David's  seed 
Was  worlds  of  seas  to  quench  their  ire." 

Excellent,  however,  of  its  kind  as  "Wotton's  poetry  is, 
it  is  not  equal  to  that  living  poem,  his  life.  He  was 
one  of  those  men  who  are  not  so  much  makers  of  poems 
as  subjects  for  poems. 

The  last  poet  of  whom  we  shall  speak,  George  Her- 
bert, was  one  in  whom  the  quaintness  of  the  time  found 
its  most  fantastic  embodiment.  He  began  life  as  a  cour- 
tier ;  and  on  the  disappointment  of  his  hopes,  or  on  his 


MIXOR   ELIZABETHAN   POETS.  247 

conviction  of  tlie  vanity  of  his  ambitions,  he  suddenly 
changed  his  whole  course  of  thought  and  life,  became  a 
clergyman,  and  is  known  to  posterity  only  as  "  holy 
George  Herbert."  His  poetry  is  the  bizarre  expression 
of  a  deeply  religious  and  intensely  thoughtful  nature, 
sincere  at  heart,  but  strange,  far-fetched,  and  serenely 
crotchety  in  utterance.  Nothing  can  be  more  frigid 
than  the  conceits  in  which  he  clothes  the  great  majority 
of  his  pious  ejaculations  and  heavenly  ecstasies.  Yet 
every  reader  feels  that  his  fancy,  quaint  as  it  often  is, 
is  a  part  of  the  organism  of  his  character ;  and  that  his 
quaintness,  his  uncouth  metaphors  and  comparisons,  his 
squalid  phraseology,  his  holy  charades  and  pious  riddles, 
his  inspirations  crystallized  into  ingenuities,  and  his 
general  disposition  to  represent  the  divine  through  the 
exterior  gui-e  of  the  odd,  are  vitally  connected  with 
that  essential  beauty  and  sweetness  of  soul  which  give 
his  poems  their  wild  flavor  and  fragrance.  Amateurs  in 
sanctity,  and  men  of  fine  religious  taste,  will  tell  you 
that  genuine  emotion  can  never  find  an  outlet  in  such 
an  elaborately  fantastic  form ;  and  the  proposition,  ac- 
cording, as  it  does,  with  the  rules  of  Blair  and  Karnes 
and  "Whately,  commands  your  immediate  assent ;  but 
BtlU  you  feel  that  genuine  emotion  is  there,  and,  if  you 
watch  sharply,  you  will  find  that  Taste,  entering  holy 
George  Herbert's  "Temple,"  after  a  preliminary  sniff 


248  MINOR  ELIZABETHAN  POETS. 

of    imbecile  contempt,  somehow  slinks   away   abashed 
after  the  first  verse  at  the  "  Church-porch : " 

"  Thou  whose  sweet  youth  and  early  hopes  enhance 
Thy  rate  and  price,  and  mark  thee  for  a  treasure, 
Hearken  unto  a  verser,  who  may  chance 
Rhyme  thee  to  good,  and  make  a  bait  of  pleasure: 
A  verse  may  find  him  whom  a  sermon  flies, 
And  turn  delight  into  a  sacrifice." 

And  that  fine  gentleman,  Taste,  having  relieved  us 
of  his  sweetly-scented  presence,  redolent  with  the  "balm 
of  a  thousand  flowers,"  —  let  us,  in  closing,  quote  one 
of  the  profoundest  utterances  of  the  Elizabethan  age, 
George  Herbert's  lines  on  Man :  — 

"  Man  is  all  symmetric, 
Full  of  pro2:)ortions,  one  limbe  to  another, 

And  aU  to  aU  the  world  besides : 

Each  part  may  call  the  fartliest,  brother; 
For  head  witli  foot  hath  private  amitie, 

And  both  with  moon  and  tides. 

"  Nothing  hath  got  so  farre 
But  man  liatli  cauglit  and  kept  it,  as  his  prey. 

His  eyes  dismount  tlie  highest  starrer 

He  is  in  little  all  the  sphere. 
Herbs  gladly  cure  our  flesh,  because  that  they 

Finde  their  acquaintance  there. 


MINOR   ELIZABETHAN  POETS.  249 

"  The  starres  have  us  to  bed ; 
Night  draws  the  curtain,  which  the  sun  withdraws: 

Musick  and  light  attend  our  head. 

AU  things  unto  onrjlesh  are  kinde 
In  their  descent  and  being ;  to  our  minde 

In  their  ascent  and  cause. 


"  More  servants  wait  on  Man 
Than  he  'U  take  notice  of;  in  every  path 

He  treads  down  that  which  doth  befriend  him 

'UTien  sickness  makes  liim  pale  and  wan. 
O  mightie  love !     llan  is  one  world,  and  hath 

Another  to  attend  him. 

"  Since  then,  mj'  God,  thou  hast 
So  brave  a  Palace  built;  0  dwell  in  it, 

That  it  maj'  dwell  with  thee  at  last ! 

Till  then  afford  us  so  much  wit. 
That  as  the  world  serves  us  we  may  serve  thee, 

And  both  thy  servants  be." 


11* 


SIDNEY    AND    RALEIGH. 

nnHE  characteristic  of  a  good  prose  style  is,  that, 
while  it  mirrors  or  embodies  the  mind  that  uses  it, 
it  also  gives  pleasure  in  itself.  The  quality  which  de- 
cides on  its  fulfilment  of  these  conditions  is  commonly 
called  taste. 

Though  taste  is  properly  under  law,  and  should,  if 
pressed,  give  reasons  for  its  decisions,  many  of  its  most 
authoritative  judgments  come  directly  from  its  instinct 
or  insight,  without  regard  to  rules.  Indeed,  a  fine 
feeling  of  the  beauty,  melody,  fitness,  and  vitality  of 
words  is  often  wanting  in  men  who  are  dexterous  in 
the  application  of  the  principles  of  style  ;  and  some 
of  the  most  philosophic  treatises  on  agsthetics  betray 
a  lack  of  that  deep  internal  sense  which  directly  per- 
ceives the  objects  and  qualities  whose  validity  it  is 
the  office  of  the  understanding  laboriously  to  demon- 
strate. 

But  whether  we  judge  of  style  by  our  perceptions  or 
by  principles,  we  all  feel  that  there  is  a  distinction  be- 
tween persons  who  write  books  and  writers  whose  books 
belong  to  literature.     There  is  something  in  the  mere 


SIDNEY   AXD   RALEIGH.  251 

wording  of  a  description  of  a  triviality  of  dress  or  man- 
ner, by  Addison  or  Steele,  which  gives  greater  mental  de- 
light than  the  description  of  a  campaign  or  a  revolution 
by  Alison.  The  principle  that  style  is  thus  a  vital  ele- 
ment in  the  expression  of  thought  and  emotion,  that  it 
not  only  measures  the  quality  and  quantity  of  the  mind 
it  conveys,  but  has  a  charm  in  itself,  makes  the  task  of 
an  historian  of  literature  less  difficult  than  it  at  first 
appears.  Among  the  prose-writers  of  the  age  of  Eliza- 
beth we  do  not,  accordingly,  include  all  who  wrote  in 
prose,  but  those  in  whom  prose  composition  was  labor- 
ing to  fulfil  the  conditions  of  art.  In  many  cases  this 
endeavor  resulted  in  the  substitution  of  artifice  for  art ; 
and  the  bond  which  connects  the  invisible  thought  with 
the  visible  word,  and  through  which  the  word  is  sur- 
charged with  the  life  of  the  thought,  being  thus  severed, 
the  effect  was  to  produce  a  fictitious  dignity,  sweetness, 
and  elegance  by  mental  sleight  of  hand  and  tricks  of 
modulation  and  antithesis. 

In  one  of  the  earliest  prose-writers  of  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth,  John  Lyly,  we  perceive  how  easily  the  de- 
mand in  the  cultivated  classes  for  what  is  fine  in  diction 
may  degenerate  into  admiration  of  what  is  superfine, 
how  elegant  imbecility  may  pass  itself  off  for  elegance, 
and  how  hypocrisy  and  grimace  may  become  a  fashion 
in  that  high  society  which  constitutes  itself  the  arbiter 


252  SIDNEY   AND  EALEIGH. 

of  taste.  Lyly,  a  scholar  of  some  beauty,  and  more  in- 
genuity, of  fancy,  was  especially  fitted  to  corrupt  a 
language  whose  rude  masculine  vigor  was  beginning 
to  be  softened  into  harmony  and  elegance ;  for  he  was 
one  of  those  effeminate  spirits  whose  felicity  it  is  to  be 
born  affected,  and  who  can  violate  general  nature  with- 
out doing  injustice  to  their  own.  The  court  of  Eliza- 
beth, full  of  highly  educated  men  and  women,  was 
greatly  pleased  with  the  fopperies  of  diction  and  senti- 
ment, the  dainty  verbal  confectionery,  of  his  so-called 
classic  plays,  and  seems  to  have  been  entirely  car- 
ried away  by  his  prose  romance  of  Euphues  and  his 
England,  first  published  in  1579.  In  this  persons  of 
fashion  might  congi-atulate  themselves  that  they  could 
find  a  language  which  was  not  spoken  by  the  vulgar. 
The  nation,  Sir  Henry  Blunt  tells  us,  was  in  debt  to 
him  for  a  new  English  which  he  taught  it ;  "  all  our 
ladies  were  his  scholars  " ;  and  that  beauty  in  court  was 
disregarded  "  who  could  not  parley  Euphuism,  that  is  to 
say,  who  was  unable  to  converse  in  that  pure  and  re- 
formed English."  Those  who  have  studied  the  jargon 
of  Holofernes  in  Shakespeare's  Love's  Labor's  Lost, 
of  Fastidious  Brisk  in  Ben  Jonson's  Every  Man  out 
of  his  Humour,  and,  later  still,  of  Sir  Piercie  Shafton, 
in  Scott's  novel  of  The  Monasteiy,  can  form  some  idea 
of  this  "  pure  and  reformed  English,"  the  peculiarities 


SIDNEY   AND   RALEIGH.  253 

of  which  have  been  happily  characterized  to  consist  in 
"pedantic  and  far-fetched  allusion,  elaborate  indirect- 
ness, a  cloying  smoothness  and  monotony  of  diction," 
and  great  fertiUty  in  "  alliteration  and  punning."  Even 
when  Lyly  seems  really  sweet,  elegant,  and  eloquent, 
he  evinces  a  natural  suspicion  of  the  graces  of  nature, 
and  contrives  to  divorce  his  rhetoric  from  all  sincerity 
of  utterance.  There  is  something  pretty  and  puerile 
even  in  his  expression  of  heroism ;  and  to  say  a  good 
thing  in  a  way  it  ought  not  to  be  said  was  to  realize  his 
highest  idea  of  art.  His  attitude  towards  what  was 
natural  had  a  touch  of  that  condescending  commisera- 
tion which  Colman's  perfumed,  embroidered,  and  man- 
nered coxcomb  extended  to  the  blooming  country  girl 
he  stooped  to  admire  :  "  Ah,  my  dear !  Nature  is  very 
well,  for  she  made  you  ;  but  then  Nature  could  not 
have  made  me  ! " 

This  infection  of  the  superfine  in  composition  was  felt 
even  by  writers  for  the  multitude  ;  and  in  the  romances 
of  Greene  and  Lodge  we  have  euphuism  as  an  affecta- 
tion of  an  affectation.  Even  their  habits  of  vulgar 
dissipation  could  not  altogether  keep  them  loyal  to  the 
comparative  purity  of  the  vulgar  language.  The  fashion 
subtly  affected  even  the  style  of  Sidney,  conscious  as  he 
was  of  its  more  obvious  fooleries ;  and  to  this  day  every 
man  who  has  anything  of  the  coxcomb  in  his  brain,  who 


254  SIDNEY  AND  RALEIGH. 

desires  a  dress  for  his  thought  more  splendid  than  his 
thought,  slides  unconsciously  into  euphuism. 

The  name  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  stands  in  the  English 
imagination  for  more  than  his  writings,  more  than  his 
actions,  more  than  his  character,  —  for  more,  we  had 
almost  said,  than  the  qualities  of  his  soul.  The  English 
race,  compound  of  Saxon  and  Norman,  has  been  fertile 
in  great  generals,  great  statesmen,  great  poets,  great 
heroes,  saints,  and  martyrs,  but  it  has  not  been  fertile  in 
great  gentlemen  ;  and  Mr.  Bull,  plethoric  with  power 
but  scant  in  courtesy,  recognizes,  with  mingled  feelings 
of  surprise  and  delight,  his  great  ornamental  production 
in  Sidney.  He  does  not  read  the  Sonnets  or  the  Arca- 
dia of  his  cherished  darling ;  he  long  left  to  an  accom- 
plished American  lady  the  grateful  task  of  writing  an 
adequate  biography  of  the  phenomenon  ;  but  he  gazes 
with  a  certain  pathetic  wonder  on  the  one  renowned 
gentleman  of  his  illustrious  house,  speculates  curiously 
how  he  came  into  the  family,  and  would  perhaps  rather 
part  with  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  with  Bacon  and 
Locke,  with  Burleigh  and  Somers,  with  Marlborough 
and  Wellington,  with  Latimer  and  Ridley,  than  with 
this  chivalrous  youth,  whose  "high-erected  thoughts" 
were  "  seated  in  a  heart  of  courtesy."  It  is  not  tor 
superior  moral  or  mental  qualities  that  he  especially 
prizes  his  favorite,  for  he  has  had  children  who  have 


SIDNF.Y   AND   RALEIGH.  .  255 

exceeded  Sidney  in  both ;  but  he  feels  that  in  Sidney 
alone  has  equal  genius  and  goodness  been  expressed  in 
hehavior. 

Sidney  was  born  on  the  29th  of  November,  1554. 
His  father  was  Sir  Henry  Sidney,  a  statesman  of  abihty 
and  integrity.  His  mother  was  Mary,  sister  of  Robert 
Dudley,  afterwards  Earl  of  Leicester.  No  pains  were 
spared  in  the  harmonious  development  of  his  powers, 
physical,  mental,  and  moral ;  and  his  instructors  were 
fortunate  in  a  pupil  blessed,  not  only  with  the  love  of 
knowledge,  but  with  the  love  of  that  virtue  which  he 
considered  the  proper  end  of  knowledge.  He  was  in- 
tended for  public  life  ;  and,  leaving  the  university  at  the 
age  of  seventeen,  he  was  shortly  after  sent  abroad  to 
study  the  languages,  observe  the  manners,  and  mingle 
in  the  society  of  tlie  Continent.  He  went  nowhere  with- 
out winning  the  hearts  of  tliose  with  whom  he  asso- 
ciated. Scholars,  philosophers,  artists,  and  men  of  let- 
ters, all  were  charmed  with  the  ingenuous  and  hi^h- 
spirited  English  youth,  who  visited  foreign  countries, 
not  like  the  majority  of  his  young  countrymen,  to  par- 
take of  their  dissipations  and  become  initiated  in  their 
vices,  but  to  fill  and  enlarge  his  understanding,  and  en- 
noble his  soul.  Hubert  Languet,  a  scholar  of  whom 
it  is  recorded  "  that  he  lived  as  the  best  of  men  should 
die,"  was  especially  captivated  by  Philip,  became  through 


256  SIDNEY   AND   EALEIGH. 

life  his  adviser  and  friend,  and  said,  "  That  day  on  which 
I  first  beheld  him  with  my  eyes  shone  propitious  to 


me 


}" 


After  about  three  years'  absence  Sidney  returned  to 
England  variously  accomplished  almost  beyond  any  man 
of  his  years ;  brave,  honorable,  and  just ;  ambitious  of 
political,  of  military,  of  literary  distinction,  and  having 
powerful  connections,  competent,  it  might  be  supposed, 
to  aid  him  in  any  public  career  on  which  his  energies 
should  be  concentrated.  But  his  very  perfections  seem 
to  have  stood  in  the  way  of  his  advancement.  Such  a 
combination  of  the  scholar,  the  poet,  and  the  knight- 
errant,  one  so  full  of  learning,  of  lofty  imagination,  of 
chivalrous  sentiment,  was  too  precious  as  a  courtier  to 
be  employed  as  a  man  of  affairs ;  and  Elizabeth  ad- 
mired, petted,  praised,  but  hesitated  to  employ  him. 
So  fine  an  ornament  of  the  nation  could  not  be  spared 
for  its  defence.  Even  his  uncle  Leicester,  all-powerful 
as  he  seemed,  failed  in  his  attempts  to  aid  the  kinsman 
who  was  perhaps  the  only  man  that  could  rouse  in  his 
dark  and  scheming  soul  the  feeling  of  affection.  Sid- 
ney, who  did  not  lack  the  knowledge  —  we  had  almost 
said  the  conceit  —  of  his  own  merits,  and  whose  temper 
was  naturally  impetuous,  was  far  from  being  contented 
with  the  lot  which  was  to  make  him  the  "  mirror  of 
courtesy,"  the  observed  and  loved  of  all  beholders,  the 


SIDNEY   AND   KALEIUH.  257 

Beau  Brummel  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth,  but  which  was 
to  shut  him  out  from  the  nobler  ambitions  of  his  manly 
and  ardent  nature,  and  prevent  his  taking  that  part 
which,  both  as  a  Protestant  and  as  a  patriot,  he  ached  to 
perform  in  the  stirring  contests  and  enterprises  of  the 
time.  Still,  he  submitted  and  waited  ;  and  the  result  is, 
that  the  incidents  of  the  career  of  this  man,  born  a  hero 
and  educated  a  statesman,  were  ludicrously  dispropor- 
tioned  to  his  own  expectations  and  to  his  fame.  In 
1576  he  was  sent  on  an  ornamental  embassy  to  the 
Emijeror  of  Germany.  Soon  after  his  return  he  suc- 
cessfully vindicated  his  father,  who  was  Governor  of 
Ireland,  from  some  aspersions  which  had  excited  the 
anger  of  Elizabeth,  and  threatened  his  father's  secre- 
tary, whom  he  suspected  of  opening  his  own  letters  to 
Sir  Henry,  that  he  would  thrust  his  dagger  into  him 
if  the  treachery  was  repeated ;  "  and  trust  to  it,"  he 
adds,  "  I  speak  it  in  earnest."  He  wrote  a  bold  letter 
to  the  Queen,  against  her  projected  matrimonial  alliance 
with  the  little  French  duke,  on  whose  villanous  person, 
and  still  more  villanous  soul,  this  "  imperial  votaress," 
so  long  walking  the  earth 

"  In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free," 

had  pretended  to  fix  her  "  virgin  "  affections.  He  was 
shortly  after,  while  playing  at  tennis,  called  a  puppy  by 

Q 


258  SIDNEY   AND   RALEIGH. 

the  Earl  of  Oxford  ;  and  it  is  a  curious  illustration  of 
the  aristocratic  temper  of  the  times,  that  our  Philip, 
who  saw  no  reasons  to  prevent  him  from  thrusting  his 
dagger,  without  heeding  the  usual  forms  of  the  duel, 
into  the  suspected  heart  of  his  father's  secretary,  could 
not  force  this  haughty  and  insolent  Earl  to  accept  his 
challenge  ;  and  the  Queen  put  an  end  to  the  quarrel  by 
informing  him  that  there  was  a  great  difference  in  de- 
gree between  earls  and  private  gentlemen,  and  that 
princes  were  bound  to  support  the  nobility,  and  to  insist 
on  their  being  treated  with  proper  respect. 

Wearied  with  court  life,  he  now  retired  to  "Wilton, 
the  seat  of  his  famous  sister,  the  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke, and  there  embodied  in  his  Arcadia  the  thoughts, 
sentiments,  and  aspirations  he  could  not  realize  in 
practice.  Campbell  has  said  that  Sidney's  life  "  was 
poetry  expressed  in  action";  but  up  to  this  time  it  had 
been  poetry  expressed  in  character,  and  denied  an  out- 
let in  action.  It  now  found  an  outlet  in  literature. 
From  day  to  day  he  wrote  under  the  eye  of  his  beloved 
sister,  with  no  thought  of  publication,  page  after  page  of 
this  goodly  folio.  The  form  of  the  Arcadia,  it  must  be 
confessed,  is  somewhat  fantastic,  and  the  story  tedious  ; 
but  the  work  is  still  so  sound  at  the  core,  so  pure,  strong, 
and  vital  in  the  soul  that  animates  it,  and  so  much  in- 
ward freshness  and  beauty  are  revealed  the  moment  we 


SIDNEY   AND   RALEIGH.  259 

pierce  its  outward  crust  of  affectation,  that  no  changes  in 
the  fashions  of  literature  have  ever  been  able  to  dislodge 
it  from  its  eminence  of  place.  There  we  may  still  learn 
the  sweet  lore  of  friendship  and  love  ;  there  we  may 
still  feed  the  heart's  hunger,  equally  for  scenes  of  pas- 
toral innocence  and  heroic  daring.     A  ray  of 

"  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land  " 

gleams  here  and  there  over  its  descriptions,  and  pro- 
claims the  poet.  The  style  of  the  book,  in  its  good  ele- 
ments, was  the  best  prose  style  which  had,  as  yet,  ap- 
peared in  English  literature,  —  vigorous,  harmonious, 
figurative,  and  condensed.  In  the  characterizations  of 
feminine  beauty  and  excellence  Spenser  and  Shake- 
speare are  anticipated,  if  not  sometimes  rivalled.  But 
all  these  merits  are  apt  to  be  lost  on  the  modern  reader, 
owing  to  the  fact  that,  though  Sidney's  thoughts  were 
noble  and  his  feelings  genuine,  his  fancy  was  artificial, 
and  incessantly  labored  to  lift  his  rhetoric  on  stilts.  It 
will  not  trust  Nature  in  her  "  homely  russet  brown,"  but 
bedizens  her  in  court  trappings,  belaces  and  embroiders 
her,  is  sceptical  of  everything  in  sentiment  and  passion 
which  is  easily  great,  and  sometimes  so  elaborates  all  life 
out  of  expression,  that  language  is  converted  from  the 
temple  of  thought  into  its  stately  mausoleum.  It  cannot, 
we  fear,  be  doubted  that  Sidney's  court  life  had  made 


260  SIDNEY   AND  RALEIGH. 

him  a  little  affected  and  conceited  on  the  surface  of  his 
fine  nature,  if  not  in  its  substance.  The  Arcadia  is  rich 
in  imagery,  but  in  the  same  sentence  we  often  find  images 
that  glitter  like  dew-drops,  followed  by  images  that  glitter 
like  icicles ;  and  there  is  every  evidence  that  to  his  taste 
the  icicles  were  finer  than  the  dew-drops. 

It  may  not  here  be  out  of  place  to  say,  that,  though  we 
commonly  think  of  Sidney  as  beautiful  in  face  no  less 
than  in  behavior,  he  was  not  in  fact  a  comely  gentleman. 
Beu  Jonson  told  Drummond  that  he  "  was  no  pleasant 
man  in  countenance,  his  face  being  spoiled  with  pimples, 
of  high  blood,  and  long." 

In  1581  we  find  Sidney  in  Parliament.  Shortly  after, 
he  wrote  his  Defence  of  Poesy,  in  which,  assuming  that 
the  object  of  knowledge  is  right  action,  he  attempted  to 
prove  the  superiority  of  poetry  to  all  other  branches  of 
knowledge,  on  the  ground  that,  while  the  other  branches 
merely  coldly  pointed  the  way  to  virtue,  poetry  enticed, 
animated,  inspired  the  soul  to  pursue  it.  Fine  as  this 
defence  of  poetry  is,  the  best  defence  of  poetry  is  to 
write  that  which  is  good.  In  1583  he  was  married  to 
the  daughter  of  Sir  Francis  Walsingham.  As  his  whole 
heart  and  imagination  were  at  this  time  absorbed  by  the 
Stella  of  his  sonnets,  the  beautiful  Penelope  Devereux, 
sister  of  the  Earl  of  Essex,  and  as  his  passion  does  not 
appear  to  have   abated  after  her  marriage  with  Lord 


SIDNEY   AND   RALEIGH.  261 

Eich,  Sidney  must  be  considered  to  have  failed  in  love 
as  in  ambition,  marrying  the  woman  he  respected,  and 
losing  the  woman  he  adored.  And  it  is  curious  that  the 
woman  he  did  marry,  soon  after  his  death,  married  the 
Earl  of  Essex,  brother  of  the  woman  he  so  much  de- 
sired to  marry. 

In  1585  the  Queen,  having  decided  to  assist  the 
United  Provinces,  in  their  war  against  Philip  of  Spain, 
with  an  English  army,  under  the  command  of  Leicester, 
gratified  Sidney's  long  thirst  for  honorable  action  by  ap- 
pointing him  Governor  of  Flushing.  In  this  post,  and 
as  general  of  cavalry,  he  did  all  that  valor  and  sagacity 
could  do  to  repair  the  blunders  and  mischiefs  which 
resulted  from  the  cowardice,  arrogance,  knavery,  and 
military  impotence  of  Leicester.  On  the  22d  of  Sep- 
tember, 1586,  in  a  desperate  engagement  near  Zut- 
phen,  he  was  dangerously  wounded  in  attempting  to 
rescue  a  friend  hemmed  in  by  the  enemy ;  and  as  he 
was  carried  bleeding  from  the  field,  he  performed  the 
crowning  act  of  his  life.  The  cup  of  water,  which  his 
lips  ached  to  touch,  but  which  he  passed  to  the  dying 
soldier  with  the  words,  "  Thy  necessity  is  greater  than 
mine," — this  beautiful  Deed,  worth  a  thousand  Defences 
of  Poetry,  will  consecrate  his  memory  in  the  hearts  of 
millions  who  will  never  read  the  Arcadia. 

Sidney  lingered  many  days   in  great   agony.      The 


262  SIDNEY  AND  RALEIGH. 

prospect  of  his  death  stirred  Leicester  with  unwonted 
emotion.  "  This  young  man,"  he  writes,  "  he  was  my 
greatest  comfort,  next  her  Majesty,  of  all  the  world ; 
and  if  I  could  buy  his  life  with  all  I  have,  to  my  shirt, 
I  would  give  it."  Tlie  account  of  his  death,  by  his 
chaplain,  is  inexpressibly  affecting.  "When  the  good 
.man,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  proved  to  him  out  of  the 
Scriptures,  that,  though  his  understanding  and  senses 
should  fail,  yet  that  faith  which  he  had  now  could  not 
fail,  he  did,  with  a  cheerful  and  smiling  countenance, 
put  forth  his  hand,  and  slapped  me  softly  on  the  cheeks. 
Not  long  after,  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  hands,  uttering 
these  words,  '  I  would  not  change  my  joy  for  the  em- 
pire of  the  world.'  ....  Having  made  a  comparison 
of  God's  grace  now  in  hira,  his  former  virtues  seemed  to 
be  nothing ;  for  he  wholly  condemned  his  former  life. 
'  All  things  in  it,'  he  said,  '  have  been  vain,  vain, 
vain.' " 

His  sufferings  were  brought  to  a  close  on  the  17th  of 
October,  1586.  Among  the  throng  of  testimonials  to 
his  excellence,  called  forth  by  his  death,  only  two  were 
worthy  of  the  occasion.  The  first  was  the  simple  re- 
mark of  Lord  But'khurst,  that  "  he  hath  had  as  great 
love  in  this  life,  and  as  many  tears  for  his  death,  as  ever 
any  had."  The  second  is  a  stanza  from  an  anony- 
mous poem,  usually  printed  with  the  elaborate,  but  cold 


SIDJs^EY   AXD   RALEIGH.  263 

and  pedantic,  eulogy  of  Spenser,  whose  tears  for  bis 
friend  and  patron  seemed  to  freeze  in  their  passage  into 
words.  The  stanza  has  been  often  quoted,  but  rarely  in 
connection  with  the  person  it  celebrates. 

"  A  sweet,  attractive  kind  of  grace, 
A  full  assurance  given  by  looks, 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face, 
The  lineaments  of  Gospel  Books." 

In  passing  from  Sidney  to  Raleigh,  we  pass  to  a  less 
beautiful  and  engaging,  but  far  more  potent  and  compre- 
hensive spirit.  We  despair  of  doing  justice  to  the  va- 
rious efficiency  of  this  most  splendid  of  adventurers,  all 
of  whose  talents  were  abilities,  and  all  of  whose  abilities 
were  accomplishments ;  whose  vigorous  and  elastic  na- 
ture could  adapt  itself  to  all  occasions  and  all  pur- 
suits ;  and  who,  as  soldier,  sailor,  courtier,  colonizer, 
statesman,  historian,  and  poet,  seemed  specially  gifted  to 
do  the  thing  which  absorbed  him  at  the  moment.  Born 
in  1552,  and  the  son  of  a  Devonshire  gentleman  of  an- 
cient family,  straitened  income,  and  numerous  children, 
fortune  denied  him  wealth,  only  to  lavish  on  him  all  the 
powers  by  which  wealth  is  acquired.  In  his  case,  one 
of  the  most  happily  constituted  of  human  intellects  was 
lodged  in  a  physical  frame  of  perfect  soundness  and 
strength,  so  that  at  all  periods  of  his  life,  in  the  phrase 
of  the  spiteful  and  sickly  Cecil,  he  could  "  toil  terribly." 


264  SIDNEY   AND   RALEIGH, 

Action,  adventure,  was  the  necessity  of  his  being. 
Imaginative  and  thoughtful  as  he  was,  the  vision  of 
imagination,  the  suggestion  of  thought,  went  equally  to 
enlighten  and  energize  his  will.  "Whatever  appeared 
possible  to  his  brain  he  ached  to  make  actual  with  his 
hand.  Though  distinguished  at  the  university,  he  left  it 
at  the  first  opportunity  for  active  life  presented  to  him, 
and  at  the  age  of  seventeen  joined  the  band  of  gentle- 
men volunteers  who  went  to  France  to  fight  on  the 
Protestant  side  in  the  civil  war  by  which  that  kingdom 
was  convulsed.  In  this  rough  work  he  passed  five 
years.  Shortly  after  his  return  in  1580,  an  Irish  re- 
bellion broke  out;  and  Raleigh,  as  captain  of  a  com- 
pany of  English  troops,  engaged  in  the  ruthless  business 
of  putting  it  down.  A  dispute  having  occurred  between 
him  and  the  Lord  Deputy,  Grey,  it  was  referred  to  the 
Council  Board  in  England.  Ealeigh,  determined,  if 
possible,  to  escape  from  the  squalid,  cruel,  and  disgust- 
ing drudgery  of  an  Irish  war,  exerted  every  resource  of 
l^s  pliant  genius  to  ingratiate  himself  with  Elizabeth, 
and  urged  his  own  views  with  such  consummate  art  that 
he  got,  says  the  chronicler,  "  the  Queen's  ear  in  a  trice." 
His  graces  of  person  took  her  fancy,  as  much  as  his 
ready  intelligence,  his  plausible  elocution,  and  his  avail- 
able union  of  the  large  conceptions  of  the  statesman 
with  the  intrepidity  of  the  soldier,  impressed  her  dis- 


SIDNEY   AND   EALEIGH.  265 

cerning  mind.  The  tradition  that  he  first  attracted  her 
regard  by  casting  his  rich  cloak  into  a  puddle  to  save  the 
royal  feet  from  contaminating  mud,  though  characteris- 
tic, is  probably  one  of  those  stories  which  are  too  good  to 
be  true.  His  promotion  was  as  rapid  as  Sidney's  was 
slow ;  for  he  had  a  mind  which,  on  all  occasions,  darted 
at  once  to  the  best  thing  to  be  done  ;  and,  not  content 
with  deserving  to  be  advanced,  he  outwitted  all  who  in- 
trigued against  his  advancement.  He  was  knighted, 
made  Captain  of  the  Guard,  Seneschal  of  the  County 
of  Cornwall,  Lord  Warden  of  the  Stannaries,  and  re- 
ceived a  large  grant  of  land  in  Ireland,  in  less  than 
three  years  after  his  victorious  appearance  at  the  Coun- 
cil Board.  Though  now  enabled  to  gratify  those  lux- 
urious tastes  which  poverty  had  heretofore  mortified,  and 
though  so  susceptible  to  all  that  can  charm  the  senses 
through  the  imagination  that  his  friend  Spenser  de- 
scribed him  as  a  man 

"  In  whose  high  thoughts  Pleasure  had  built  her  bower," 

Still  pleasure,  though  intensely  enjoyed,  had  no  allure- 
ments to  weaken  the  insatiable  activity  of  his  spirit  or 
moderate  the  audacity  of  his  ambition.  Patriot  as  well 
as  courtier,  and  statesman  as  well  as  adventurer,  with 
an  intelligence  so  flexible  that  it  could  grasp  great 
designs  as  easily  as  it  could  manage  petty  intrigues,  and 

12 


266  SIDNEY   AND  EALEIGH. 

impelled  by  an  impatient  feeling  that  he  was  the  ablest 
man  of  the  nation,  in  vii'tue  of  individualizing  most 
thoroughly  the  spirit  and  aspirations  of  the  people  and 
the  time,  he  now  engaged  in  those  great  maritime  enter- 
prises which  are  inseparably  associated  with  his  name, 
—  to  found  a  colonial  empire  for  England,  and  to  break 
down  the  power  and  humble  the  pride  of  Spain.  In 
1585  he  obtained  a  patent  from  the  Queen  "  to  appro- 
priate, plant,  and  govern  any  territorial  possessions  he 
might  acquire  in  the  unoccupied  portions  of  North 
America."  The  result  was  the  first  settlement  of  Vir- 
ginia, which  failed  from  the  misconduct  of  the  colonists 
and  the  hostility  of  the  Indians.  He  then  engaged 
extensively  in  those  privateering  —  those  somewhat 
buccaneering  —  expeditions  against  the  commerce  and 
colonies  of  Spain  which  can  be  justified  on  no  general 
principles,  but  which  the  instinct  of  the  English  people, 
hating  Spaniards,  hating  Popery,  and  conscious  that 
real  war  existed  under  formal  peace,  both  stimulated 
and  sanctioned.  Spain,  to  Raleigh,  was  a  nation  to  be 
detested  and  warred  against  by  every  honest  English- 
man for  "her  bloody  and  injurious  designs,  purposed 
and  practised  against  Christian  princes,  over  all  of 
whom  she  seeks  unlawful  and  ungodly  rule  and  em- 
piry." 
In  the  height  of  Raleigh's  favor  with  the  Queen  the 


SIDNEY   AND    KALEIGH.  267 

discovery  of  his  intrigue  and  subsequent  private  mar- 
riage witli  one  of  Iier  maids  of  honor  brought  down 
on  liis  head  the  full  storm  of  the  royal  virago's  wrath. 
He  was  deprived  of  all  the  offices  which  gave  him  ad- 
mission to  her  august  presence,  and  imprisoned  with  his 
wife  in  the  Tower.  Any  other  man  would  have  been 
hopelessly  ruined ;  but,  by  counterfeiting  the  most  ro- 
mantic despair  at  the  Queen's  displeasure,  and  by  repre- 
senting his  whole  misery  to  proceed  from  being  deprived 
of  the  sight  of  her  red  hair  and  painted  face,  he  was,  in 
two  or  three  weeks,  released  from  imprisonment.  When 
free,  he  performed  such  important  parliamentary  ser- 
vices that  he  partially  regained  her  favor,  and  he  man- 
aged so  well  as  to  induce  her  to  grant  him  the  manor 
of  Sherborne.  As  this  was  church  property,  and  as  Ra- 
leigh was  accused  by  his  enemies  of  being  an  atheist, 
the  grant  occasioned  great  scandal.  His  disgrace  and 
imprisonment  had  filled  his  rivals  with  hope.  They 
naturally  thought  that  his  offence,  which  mortified  the 
coquette's  vanity  as  well  as  the  sovereign's  pride,  was 
of  such  a  nature  that  even  Raleigh's  management  could 
not  gloss  it  over ;  but  now  they  trembled  with  appre- 
hensions of  his  complete  restoration  to  favor.  One  of 
them  writes  :  "  It  is  feared  of  all  honest  men,  that  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  shall  presently  come  to  court ;  and  yet 
it  is  well  withstood.     God  grant  him  some  further  resist- 


268  SIDNEY   AND   RALEIGH. 

ance,  and  that  place  he  better  deserveth  if  he  had  his 
right." 

Raleigh,  unsuccessful  in  regaining  the  affection  and 
esteem  of  his  royal  mistress,  now  thought  to  dazzle  her 
imagination  with  a  shining  enterprise.  He  believed, 
with  millions  of  others,  in  the  fable  of  El  Dorado,  and 
conceived  the  place  to  lie  somewhere  in  Guiana,  in  the 
region  between  the  Orinoco  and  the  Amazon.  His  im- 
agination was  fired  with  the  thought  of  penetrating  to 
the  capital  city,  where  the  houses  were  roofed  with  gold, 
where  the  common  sand  glistened,  and  the  very  rocks 
shone,  with  the  precious  deposit.  Should  he  succeed, 
the  consequences  would  be  immense  wealth  and  fame 
for  himself,  and  immense  addition  to  the  power  and 
glory  of  England  ;  and  as  he  purposed  to  induce  the 
native  chiefs  to  swear  allegiance  to  the  Queen,  and 
eventually  to  establish  an  English  colony  in  the  country, 
he  flattered  himself,  in  Mr.  Napier's  words,  "  that  he 
would  be  able,  by  the  acquisition  of  Guiana,  vastly  to 
extend  the  sphere  of  English  industry  and  commerce, 
to  render  London  the  mart  of  the  choicest  productions 
of  the  New  World,  and  to  annex  to  the  Crown  a  region 
which,  besides  its  great  colonial  recommendations,  would 
enable  it  to  command  the  chief  possessions  of  its  great- 
est enemy,  and  from  which  his  principal  resources  were 
derived."     Possessed  by  these  kindling  ideas,  and  with 


SIDNEY  AND  RALEIGH.  269 

the  personal  magnetism  to  make  them  infectious,  Ra- 
leigh does  not  seem  to  have  found  any  difficulty  ia 
obtaining  money  and  men  to  carry  them  out ;  and  ia 
February,  1595,  with  a  fleet  of  five  ships,  he  set  out  for 
the  land  of  gold.  The  enterprise  was,  of  course,  un- 
successful, for  no  El  Dorado  existed  ;  but  on  his  return, 
at  the  close  of  the  summer,  he  published  his  account  of 
"  The  Discovery  of  the  Large,  Rich,  and  Beautiful  Em- 
pire of  Guiana,"  in  which  the  failure  of  the  expedition 
is  recorded  in  connection  with  a  profession  of  undis- 
turbed faith  in  the  reality  of  its  object,  and  some  as- 
•  tounding  stories  are  told,  concerning  which  it  is  now 
difficult  to  decide  whether  Raleigh  unconsciously  exag- 
gerated or  deliberately  lied.  It  was  his  professed  inten- 
tion to  renew  the  search  at  once ;  but,  the  Queen 
having  by  this  time  nearly  forgiven  his  offence,  his 
ambition  was  stimulated  by  objects  nearer  home,  and 
the  quest  of  El  Dorado  was  postponed  to  a  more  con- 
venient season. 

In  1596  he  won  great  fame  for  his  intrepidity  and 
skill  as  Rear  Admiral  of  the  fleet  which  took  Cadiz ; 
and  in  1597  he  further  distinguished  himself  by  the 
capture  of  Fayal.  Restored  to  his  office  of  Captain 
of  the  Guard,  he  was  again  seen  by  envious  rivals  in 
personal  attendance  on  the  Queen.  Between  the  court 
factions  of  Essex  and  Cecil  he  first  tried  to  mediate; 


270  SIDNEY  AND  KALEIGH. 

but,  being  hated  by  Essex,  he  joined  Cecil  for  the  pur- 
pose of  crushing  the  enemy  of  both.  The  intention 
of  Cecil  was,  to  use  Raleigh  to  depress  Essex,  and  then 
to  betray  his  own  instrument.  Essex  fell ;  but,  as  long 
as  Elizabeth  lived,  Raleigh  was  safe.  Cecil,  however, 
took  care  to  poison  in  advance  the  mind  of  her  succes- 
sor with  suspicions  of  Raleigh ;  and,  on  James's  acces- 
sion to  the  throne,  Raleigh  discovered  that  he  was 
distrusted,  and  would  probably  be  disgraced.  Such  a 
man  was  not  likely  to  give  up  his  offices  and  abdicate 
his  power  without  a  struggle  ;  and,  as  he  could  hope  for 
no  favor,  he  tried  the  desperate  expedient  of  making 
himself  powerful  by  making  himself  feared.  .  In  our 
time  he  would  have  "  gone  into  opposition "  :  in  the 
time  of  James  the  First  "  His  Majesty's  Opposition  " 
did  not  exist ;  and  he  became  connected  with  a  myste- 
rious plot  to  raise  Arabella  Stuart  to  the  English  throne, 
—  trusting,  as  we  cannot  but  think,  in  his  own  sagacity 
to  avoid  the  appearance  and  evidence  of  treason,  and  to 
use  the  folly  of  the  real  conspirators  as  a  means  of 
forcing  his  claims  on  the  attention  of  James.  In  this 
game,  however,  Cecil  proved  himself  a  more  astute  and 
unscrupulous  politician  than  his  late  accomplice.  The 
plot  was  discovered  ;  Raleigh  was  tried  on  a  charge  of 
treason ;  the  jury,  being  managed  by  the  government, 
found  him  guilty,  and  he  was  sentenced  to  death.     The 


SIDNEY   AND   RALEIGH.  271' 

sentence,  Iiowever,  was  so  palpably  against  the  law  and 
the  evidence  that  it  was  not  executed.  By  the  exceed- 
ing grace  of  the  good  King,  Raleigh  was  only  plundered 
of  his  estate,  sent  to  the  Tower,  and  confined  there  for 
thirteen  years. 

The  restless  activity  of  his  mind  now  found  a  vent  ia 
experimental  science  and  in  literature  ;  and,  taking  a 
theme  as  large  as  the  scope  of  his  own  mind,  he  set 
himself  resolutely  to  work  to  write  the  History  of  the 
World.  Meanwhile  he  spared  no  arts  of  influence, 
bribery,  and  flattery  to  get  his  liberty  ;  and  at  last, 
in  March,  1615,  was  released,  without  being  par- 
doned, on  his  tempting  the  cupidity  of  James  with  cir- 
cumstantial details  of  the  mineral  wealth  of  Guiana, 
and  by  offering  to  conduct  an  expedition  there  to  open  a 
gold-mine.  With  a  fleet  of  thirteen  ships  he  set  sail, 
arrived  on  the  coast  in  November,  and  sent  a  large  par- 
ty up  the  Orinoco,  who,  after  having  attacked  and  burnt 
the  Spanish  town  of  St.  Thomas,  —  an  engagement  ia 
which  Raleigh's  eldest  son  lost  his  life,  —  returned  to 
their  sick  and  mortified  commander  with  the  intelligence 
that  they  had  failed  to  discover  the  mine.  The  accounts 
of  what  afterwards  occurred  in  this  ill-fated  expedition 
are  so  confused  and  contradictory  that  it  is  difficult  to 
obtain  a  clear  idea  of  the  facts.  It  is  sufficient  to 
say  that  Raleigh  returned  to  England,  laboring  under 


272  SIDNEY  AND  EALEIGH. 

imputations  of  folsehood,  treachery,  and  contemplated 
treason  and  piracy,  and  that  he  there  found  the  Spanish 
ambassador  clamoring  in  the  court  of  James  for  his  life. 
His  ruin  was  resolved  upon  ;  and,  as  he  never  had  been 
pardoned,  it  was  tliought  more  convenient  to  execute 
him  on  the  old  sentence  than  to  run  the  risk  of  a  new 
trial  for  his  alleged  offences  since.  In  other  words,  it 
was  resolved  to  use  the  technicalities  of  law  to  violate 
its  essence,  and  to  employ  certain  legal  refinements  as 
instruments  of  murder.  On  the  29th  of  October,  1G18, 
he  was  accordingly  beheaded.  His  behavior  on  the 
scaffold  Avas  what  might  have  been  expected  from  the 
dauntless  spirit  which,  in  its  experience  of  nearly  the 
whole  circle  of  human  emotions,  had  never  felt  the  sen- 
sation of  fear.  After  vindicating  his  conduct  in  a  manly 
and  dignified  speech  to  the  spectators,  he  desired  tlie 
headsman  to  show  him  the  axe,  which  not  being  done 
at  once,  he  said,  "  I  pray  thee,  let  me  see  it.  Dost  thou 
think  that  I  am  afraid  of  it  ?  "  After  he  had  taken  it 
in  his  hand,  he  felt  curiously  along  the  edge,  and  then 
smilingly  remarked  to  the  sheriff,  "  This  is  a  sharp 
medicine,  but  it  is  a  physician  for  all  diseases."  After 
he  had  laid  his  head  on  the  block,  he  was  requested  to 
turn  it  on  the  other  side.  "  So  the  heart  be  right,"  he 
replied,  "  it  is  no  matter  which  way  the  head  lieth." 
After  his  forgiving  the  headsman,  and  praying  a  few 


SIDNEY  AND   KALEIGH.  273 

moments,  the  signal  was  made,  which  not  being  immedi- 
ately followed  by  the  stroke,  Raleigh  said  to  the  exe- 
cutioner :  "  Why  dost  thou  not  strike?  Strike,  man  !" 
Two  strokes  of  the  axe,  under  which  his  frame  did  not 
shrink  or  move,  severed  his  head  from  his  body.  The 
immense  effusion  of  blood,  in  a  man  of  sixty-six,  amazed 
everybody  that  saw  it.  "  Who  would  have  thought," 
King  James  might  have  said,  with  another  distinguished 
ornament  of  the  royal  house  of  Scotland,  "  that  the  old 
man  had  so  much  blood  in  him  ! "  Yes,  blood  enough 
in  his  veins,  and  thought  enough  in  his  head,  and  hero- 
ism enough  in  his  soul,  to  have  served  England  for 
twenty  years  more,  had  folly  and  baseness  not  other- 
wise willed  it  ! 

The  superabundant  physical  and  mental  vitality  of 
this  extraordinary  man  is  seen  almost  equally  in  his  ac- 
tions and  his  writings.  A  courtier,  riding  abroad  with 
the  Queen  in  his  suit  of  silver  armor,  or  in  attendance 
at  her  court,  dressed,  as  the  antiquary  tells  us,  in  "  a 
white  satin  doublet  all  embroidered  with  white  pearls, 
and  a  mighty  rich  chain  of  great  pearls  about  his  neck," 
he  was  still  not  imprisoned  by  these  magnificent  vanities, 
but  could  abandon  them  joyfully  to  encounter  pestilen- 
tial climates  and  lead  desperate  maritime  enterprises. 
As  an  orator  he  was  not  only,  powerful  in  the  Commons, 
but  persuasive  with  individuals.     Nobody  could  resist 

12*  R 


274  SIDNEY  AND   EALEIGH. 

his  tongue.  The  Queen,  we  are  told,  "  was  much  taken 
with  his  elocution,  loved  to  liear  his  reasons,  and  took 
him  for  a  kind  of  oracle."  To  his  counsel,  more  than 
to  any  other  man's,  England  was  indebted  for  the  de- 
struction of  the  Spanish  Armada.  He  spoke  and  wrote 
wisely  and  vigorously  on  policy  and  govei'nment,  on 
naval  architecture  and  naval  tactics.  Among  his  public 
services  we  may  rank  his  claim  to  be  considered  the  in- 
troducer into  Europe  of  tobacco  and  the  potato.  In 
political  economy,  he  anticipated  the  modern  doctrine  of 
free  trade  and  freedom  of  industry ;  he  first  stated  also 
the  theory  regarding  population  which  is  associated 
with  the  name  of  Malthus  ;  and,  though  himself  a  gold- 
seeker,  he  saw  clearly  that  gold  had  no  peculiar  pre- 
ciousness  beyond  any  other  commodity,  and  that  it  was 
the  value  of  what  a  nation  derived  from  its  colonies, 
and  not  the  kind  of  value,  which  made  colonies  impor- 
tant. In  intellectual  philosophy  Dugald  Stewart  admits 
that  he  anticipated  his  own  leading  doctrine  in  respect 
to  "  the  fundamental  laws  of  human  belief."  His  cu- 
rious and  practical  intellect,  stung  by  all  secrets,  showed 
also  an  aptitude  for  the  experimental  investigation  of 
natural  phenomena. 

And  he  was  likewise  a  poet.  It  was  one  of  his  inten- 
tions to  write  an  English  epic  ;  but  his  busy  life  only 
allowed   him   leisure    for    some    miscellaneous    pieces. 


SIDNEY   AND   RALEIGH.  275 

Among  these,  Lis  sonnet  on  his  friend  Spenser's  Faery 
Queene  would  alone  be  sufficient  to  demonstrate  the 
depth  of  his  sentiment  and  the  strength  of  his  imagina- 
tion. 

"  Methoiiglit  I  saw  the  grave  where  Lanra  lay, 
"Within  that  Temple  where  the  vestal  flame 
Was  wont  to  bum ;  and,  passing  by  that  way 
To  see  that  buried  dust  of  living  fame, 
Whose  tomb  fair  Love  and  fairer  Virtue  kept, 
All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Faery  Queen : 
At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch  wept, 
And  from  thenceforth  those  Graces  were  not  seen 
(For  they  this  Queen  attended),  in  whose  stead 
Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura's  hearse; 
Hereat  the  hardest  stones  were  seen  to  bleed, 
And  groans  of  buried  ghosts  the  heavens  did  perse: 
Where  Homer's  spright  did  tremble  all  for  grief, 
And  cursed  the  access  of  that  celestial  thief" 

But  his  great  literary  work  was  his  History  of  the 
World,  written  during  his  imprisonment  in  the  Tower. 
As  might  be  supposed,  his  restless,  insatiable,  capacious, 
and  audacious  mind  could  not  be  content  with  the  mod- 
ern practice,  even  as  followed  by  philosophical  histo- 
rians, of  narrating  events  and  elucidating  laws.  He 
began  with  the  Ci'eator  and  the  creation,  pressing  into 
his  service  all  the  th(^ology,  the  philosophy,  and  the 
metaphysics  of  his  time,  and  boldly  grappling  with  the 
most  insoluble  problems,  even  that  of  the  Divine  Es- 


276  SIDNEY   AND   EALEIGH. 

sence.  Nearly  half  of  the  immense  foho  is  devoted 
to  sacred  history ;  and  though  the  remaining  portions, 
devoted  to  the  Assyrians,  the  Persians,  the  Greeks,  and 
the  Roman.-;,  are  commonly  considered  the  most  reada- 
ble, inasmuch  as  they  exhibit  Raleigh,  the  statesman  and 
warrior,  sociably  treating  of  statesmen  and  warriors,  — 
Raleigh,  who  had  lived  history,  penetrating  into  the  life 
of  historical  events,  —  we  must  confess  to  having  been 
more  attracted  by  the  earlier  portions,  which  show  us 
Raleigh  the  scholar,  philosopher,  and  divine,  in  his  at- 
tempts to  probe  the  deepest  secrets  of  existence,  his  braia 
crowded  with  all  the  foolish  and  all  the  wise  sayings  of 
Pagan  philosophers  and  Christian  fathers  and  schoolmen, 
and  throwing  his  own  judgments,  with  a  quaint  simplic- 
ity and  a  quaint  audacity,  into  the  general  mass  of  theo- 
logical and  ])hilosophIcal  guessing  he  has  accumulated. 
The  style  of  the  history  is  excellent,  —  clear,  sweet, 
flexible,  straightforward  and  business-like,  discussing  the 
question  of  the  locality  of  Paradise  as  Raleigh  would 
have  discussed  the  question  of  an  expedition  against 
Spain  at  the  council-table  of  Elizabeth.  There  is  an 
apocryphal  story  that  he  completed  another  volume  of 
the  History  of  the  World,  but,  on  learning  that  his  pub- 
lisher had  lost  money  by  the  first,  burnt  the  manuscript, 
not  willing  that  so  good  a  man  should  suffer  any  further 
harm  through  him.     But  the  story  must  be  false  ;  for 


SIDNEY  AND  EALEIGU.  277 

such  tenderness  to  a  publisher  is  equally  against  human 
nature  and  author-nature. 

The  defect  of  Raleigh's  character,  even  when  his 
ends  were  patriotic  and  ncble,  was  unscrupulousness,  — 
a  flashing  impatience  with  all  moral  obstacles  obtruded 
in  the  path  of  his  designs.  He  had  a  too  confident  be- 
lief in  the  resources  of  his  wit  and  courage,  in  the  in- 
fallibility of  his  insight,  foresight,  and  power  of  combi- 
nation, in  the  unflagging  vigor  by  which  he  had  so  often 
made  his  will  march  abreast  of  his  swiftest  thought ; 
and  in  carrying  out  his  projects  he  sometimes  risked 
his  conscience  with  almo-t  the  same  joyous  reckless- 
ness with  which  he  risked  his  life.  The  noblest  passage 
in  his  History  of  the  ^yorld,  that  in  which  he  condenses 
in  the  bold  and  striking  image  of  a  majestic  tree  the 
power  of  Rome,  has  some  application  to  his  own  splen- 
did rise  and  terrible  fall.  "  AYe  have  left  Rome,"  he 
says,  "flourishing  in  the  middle  of  the  field,  having 
rooted  up  or  cut  down  all  that  kept  it  from  the  eyes  and 
admiration  of  the  world.  But,  after  some  continuance, 
it  shall  begin  to  lose  the  beauty  it  had  ;  the  storms  of 
ambition  shall  beat  her  great  boughs  and  branches  one 
against  another ;  her  leaves  shall  fall  ofl^,  her  limbs 
wither,  and  a  rabble  of  barbarous  nations  enter  the 
field  and  cut  her  down." 


BACON". 


^  n^TEXT  to  Shakespeare,  the  greatest  name  of  the 
Elizabethan  age  is  that  of  Bacon.  His  life  has 
been  written  by  his  chaplain.  Dr.  Rawley,  by  Basil 
Montagu,  by  Lord  Campbell,  and  by  Macaulay ;  yet 
none  of  these  biographies  reconciles  the  external  facts 
of  the  man's  life  with  the  internal  facts  of  the  man's 
nature. 

Macaulay's  vivid  sketch  of  Bacon's  career  is  the 
most  acute,  the  most  merciless,  and  for  popular  effect 
the  most  efficient,  of  all ;  but  it  deals  simply  with  ex- 
ternal events,  evinces  in  their  interpretation  no  deep  and 
detecting  glance  into  character,  and  urges  the  evidence 
for  the  baseness  of  Bacon  with  the  acrimonious  zeal 
of  a  prosecuting  attorney,  eager  for  a  verdict,  i-ather 
than  weighs  it  with  the  candor  of  a  judge  deciding  on 
the  nature  of  a  great  benefactor  of  the  race,  who  in  his 
will  had  solemnly  left  his  memory  to  "  men's  charitable 
speeches."  When  he  comes  to  treat  of  Bacon  as  a  phi- 
losopher, he  passes  to  the  opposite  extreme  of  panegyric. 
The  impression  left  by  the  whole  representation  is  not 


BACON.  279 

the  impression  of  a  man,  but  of  a  monstrous  huddling 
together  of  two  men,  —  one  infamous,  the  other  glorious, 
■ —  which  he  calls  bj  the  name  of  Bacon. 

The  question  therefore  arises,  Is  it  possible  to  har-  V 
monize,  in  one  individuality,  Bacon  the  courtier.  Bacon 
the  lawyer,  Bacon  the  statesman.  Bacon  the  judge,  with 
Bacon  the  thinker,  philosopher,  and  philanthropist  ? 
The  antithesis  commonly  instituted  between  these  is 
rather  a  play  of  epigram  than  an  exercise  of  character- 
ization. The  "  meanest  of  mankind "  could  not  have 
written  The  Advancement  of  Learning ;  yet  everybody 
feels  that  some  connection  there  must  be  between  the 
meditative  life  which  produced  The  Advancement  of 
Learning,  and  the  practical  life  devoted  to  the  advance- 
ment of  Bacon.  Who,  then,  ivas  the  man  who  is  so 
execrated  for  selling  justice,  and  so  exalted  for  writing 
the  Novum  Organum  ? 

This  question  can  never  be  intelligently  answered, 
unless  we  establish  some  points  of  connection  between 
the  spirit  which  animates  his  works  and  the  external 
events  which  constituted  what  is  called  his  life.  As  a 
general  principle,  it  is  well  for  us  to  obtain  some  concep- 
tion of  a  great  man  from  his  writings,  before  we  give 
much  heed  to  tlie  recorded  incidents  of  his  career  ;  for 
these  incidents,  as  historically  narrated,  are  likely  to  be 
false,  are  sure  to  be  one-sided,  and  almost  always  need 


280  BACON. 

to  be  interpreted  in  order  to  convey  real  knowledge  to 
the  miiid.  It  is  ever  for  the  interest  or  the  malice  of 
some  contemporary,  that  every  famous  politician,  who 
by  necessity  passes  into  history,  should  pass  into  it 
stained  in  character ;  and  it  is  fortunate  that,  in  the  case 
of  Bacon,  we  are  not  confined  to  the  outside  records  of 
his  career,  but  possess  means  of  information  which  con- 
duct us  into  the  heart  of  his  nature.  Indeed,  Bacon 
the  man  is  most  clearly  seen  and  intimately  known  in 
Bacon  the  thinker.  Bacon  thinking,  Bacon  observing, 
Bacon  inventing,  —  these  were  as  much  acts  of  Bacon 
as  Bacon  intriguing  for  power  and  place.  "  I  account," 
he  has  said,  "  my  ordinary  course  of  study  and  medita- 
tion more  painful  than  most  parts  of  action  are."  But 
his  works  do  not  merely  contain  his  thoughts  and  obser- 
vations ;  they  are  all  informed  with  the  inmost  life  of 
his  mind  and  the  real  quality  of  his  nature ;  and,  if  he 
was  base,  servile,  treacherous,  and  venal,  it  will  not  re- 
quire any  great  expenditure  of  sagacity  to  detect  the 
taint  of  servility,  baseness,  treachery,  and  venality  in 
bis  writings.  For  wdiat  was  Bacon's  intellect  but  Ba- 
con's nature  in  its  intellectual  expression  ?  Everybody 
remembers  the  noble  commencement  of  the  Novum  Or- 
ganum  :  "  Francis  of  Verulam  thought  thus."  Ay  !  it  is 
not  merely  the  understanding  of  Francis  of  Verulam, 
but  Francis  himself  that  thinks ;  and  we  may  be  sure 


BACON.  281 

that  the  thought  will  give  us  the  spirit  and  average 
moral  quality  of  the  man  ;  for  it  is  not  faculties,  but 
persons  using  faculties,  persons  behind  faculties  and 
within  faculties,  that  invent,  combine,  discover,  create; 
and  in  the  whole  history  of  the  human  intellect,  in  the 
department  of  literature,  there  has  been  no  exercise  of 
live  creative  faculty  without  an  escape  of  character. 
The  new  thoughts,  the  novel  combinations,  the  fresh 
images,  are  all  enveloped  in  an  atmosphere,  or  borne  on 
a  stream,  which  conveys  into  the  recipient  mind  the  fine 
essence  of  individual  life  and  individual  disposition.  It 
is  more  difficult  to  detect  this  in  comprehensive  individ- 
ualities like  Bacon  and  Shakespeare  than  in  narrow 
individualities  like  Ben  Jonson  and  Marlowe  ;  but  still, 
if  we  sharply  scrutinize  the  impression  which  Bacon 
and  Shakespeare  have  left  on  our  minds,  we  shall  find 
that  they  have  not  merely  enlarged  our  reason  with  new 
truth,  and  charmed  our  imagination  with  new  beauty, 
but  that  they  have  stamped  on  our  consciousness  the 
image  of  their  natures,  and  touched  the  finest  sensi- 
bilities of  our  souls  with  the  subtile  but  potent  influence 
of  their  characters. 

Now  if  we  discern  and  feel  this  image  and  this  life 
of  Bacon,  derived  from  his  works,  we  shall  find  that  his 
individuality  —  capacious,  flexible,  fertile,  far-reaching 
as  it  was  —  was  still  deficient  in  heat,  and  that  this  de- 


282  BACON. 

ficiency  was  in  the  very  centre  of  his  nature  and  sources 
of  his  moral  being.  Leaving  out  of  view  the  lack  of 
stamina  in  his  bodily  constitution,  and  his  consequent 
want  of  those  rude,  rough  energies  and  that  peculiar 
Teutonic  pluck  which  seem  the  birthright  of  every  Eng- 
lishman of  robust  health,  we  find  in  the  works  as  in 
the  life  of  the  man  no  evidence  of  strong  appetites  or 
fierce  passions  or  kindling  sentiments.  Neither  in  his 
blood  nor  in  his  soul  can  we  discover  any  of  the  coarse 
or  any  of  the  fine  impulses  which  impart  intensity  to 
character.  He  is  without  the  vices  of  passion, — 
voluptuousness,  hatred,  envy,  malice,  revenge  ;  but  he  is 
also  without  the  virtues  of  passion,  —  deep  love,  warm 
gratitude,  capacity  of  unwithholding  self-committal  to  a 
great  sentiment  or  a  great  cause.  This  defect  of  inten- 
sity is  the  source  of  that  weakness  in  the  actions  of  his 
life  which  his  satirists  have  stigmatized  as  baseness  ; 
and,  viewing  it  altogether  apart  from  the  vast  intellec- 
tual nature  modifying  and  modified  by  it,  they  have  tied 
the  faculties  of  an  angel  to  the  soul  of  a  sneak.  While 
narrating  the  events  of  his  career,  and  making  epi- 
grams out  of  his  frailties,  they  have  lost  all  vision  of 
that  noble  brow,  on  which,  it  might  be  said,  "  Shame  is 
ashamed  to  sit."  Shame  may  be  there,  but  it  is  shame 
shamefaced,  —  aghast  at  its   position,  not   glorying   in 

it! 


BACON.        .  283 

with  this  view  of  the  intellectual  character  of  Bacon, 
let  us  pass  to  the  events  of  his  life.  He  was  born  in 
London  on  the  2 2d  of  January,  15 Gl,  and  was  the 
youngest  son  of  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  Keeper  of  the 
Great  Seal.  His  mother,  sister  to  the  wife  of  Lord 
Treasurer  Burleigh,  possessed  uncommon  accomplish- 
ments even  in  that  age  of  learned  women.  "  Such  be- 
ing his  parents,"  quaintly  says  Dr.  Rawley,  "  you  may 
easily  imagine  what  the  issue  was  likely  to  be  ;  having 
had  whatsoever  nature  or  breeding  could  put  into  him." 
Sir  Nicholas  was  a  capable,  sagacious,  long-headed, 
cold-blooded,  and  not  especially  scrupulous  man  of  the 
world,  who,  like  all  the  eminent  statesmen  of  Eliza- 
beth's reign,  acted  for  the  public  interest  without  pre- 
judicing his  own.  Lady  Bacon  had,  among  other 
works,  translated  from  the  Italian  some  sermons  on  Pre- 
destination and  Election,  written  by  Ochinus,  a  divine 
of  that  Sociuian  sect  which  Orthodox  religionists,  who 
hated  each  other,  could  still  unite  in  stigmatizing  as  pre- 
eminently wicked  ;  and,  if  we  may  judge  from  this  cir- 
cumstance, she  must  have  had  a  daring  and  discursive 
as  well  as  learned  spirit.  The  mind  of  the  son,  if  it  de- 
rived its  weight,  moderation,  and  strong  practical  bent 
from  the  father,  derived  no  less  its  intellectual  self-reli- 
ance and  audacity  from  the  mother;  and,  as  Francis  was 
the  favorite  child,   we  may  presume  that  the  parents 


284  BACON. 

saw  in  him  their  different  qualities  exquisitely  combined. 
As  a  boy,  he  was  weak  in  health,  indifferent  to  the 
sports  of  youth,  of  great  quickness,  curiosity,  and  flexi- 
bility of  intellect,  and  with  a  sweet  sobriety  in  his  de- 
portment which  made  the  Queen  call  him  "  the  young 
Lord  Keeper."  He  was  a  courtier,  too,  at  an  age  when 
most  boys  care  as  little  for  queens  as  they  do  for 
nurserj^-maids.  Being  asked  by  EHzabeth  how  old  he 
■was,  he  replied  that  he  was  "  two  years  younger  than 
her  Majesty's  happy  reign,"  with  which  answer,  says  the 
honest  chronicler,  "  the  Queen  was  much  taken,"  Re- 
ceiving his  early  education  under  his  mother's  eye,  and 
freely  mixing  with  the  wise  and  great  people  who  visited 
his  father's  house,  he  was  uncommonly  mature  in  mind 
when,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  he  was  sent  to  the  Univer- 
fity  of  Cambridge.  With  his  swiftness  and  facility  of 
acquisition,  it  was  but  natural  that  he  should  easily 
master  his  studies  ;  but  he  did  more,  he  subjected  them 
to  his  own  tests  of  value  and  utility,  and  despised  them. 
Before  he  had  been  two  years  at  college,  this  smooth, 
decorous  stripling,  who  bowed  so  low  to  Dr.  Whitgift, 
and  was  outwardly  so  respectful  to  the  solemn  trumpery 
about  him,  but  was  still  inwardly  unawed  by  the  au- 
thority of  traditions  and  accredited  forms,  coolly  re- 
moved the  mask  from  the  body  of  learning,  to  find,  as 
he  thought,  nothing  but  ignorance  and  emptiness  within. 


BACON.  285 

The  intellectual  dictator  of  forty  generations,  Aristotle 
himself,  was  called  up  before  the  judgment-seat  of  this 
young  brain,  the  pretensions  of  his  philosophy  silently 
sifted,  and  then  dismissed  and  disowned,  —  not,  he  con- 
descended to  say,  "  for  the  ■«  orthlessness  of  the  author, 
to  whom  he  would  ever  ascribe  all  high  attributes,"  but 
for  the  barrenness  of  the  method,  "  the  unfruitfulness  of 
the  way."  By  profound  and  self-reliant  meditation,  he 
had  already  caught  bright  glimpses  of  a  new  path  for  the 
human  intellect  to  pursue,  leading  to  a  more  fertile  and 
fruitful  domain,  —  its  process  experience,  not  dogma- 
tism ;  its  results  discoveries,  not  disputations ;  its  object 
"  the  glory  of  God  and  the  relief  of  man's  estate." 
This  aspiring  idea  was  the  constant  companion  of  his 
mind  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his  career,  —  never 
forgotten  in  poverty,  in  business,  in  glory,  in  humiliation, 
—  the  last  word  on  his  lip,  and  alive  in  the  last  beat  of 
his  heart  ;  and  it  is  this  which  lends  to  his  large  reason 
and  rich  imagination  that  sweet  and  pervasive  benefi- 
cence, which  is  felt  to  be  the  culminating  charm  of  his 
matchless  compositions,  and  which  refuses  to  allow  his 
character  to  be  deprived  of  benignity,  even  after  its 
pliancy  to  circumstances  may  have  depi'ived  it  of  its 
tiili  to  respect. 

Before  he  was  sixteen,  he  left  the  university,  without 
taking  a  degree  ;  and  his  father,  who  evidently  intended 


286  BACON. 

him  for  public  life,  sent  him  to  France,  in  the  train  of  the 
English  ambassador,  in  order  that  he  might  learn  Ihe 
arts  of  statecraft.  Here  he  resided  for  about  two  years 
and  a  half,  enjoying  rare  opportunities  for  observing  men 
and  affairs,  and  of  mingling  in  the  society  of  statesmen, 
philosophers,  and  men  of  letters,  Avho  were  pleased 
equally  by  the  originality  of  his  mind  and  the  amenity 
of  his  manners.  lie  purposed  to  stay  some  years 
abroad,  and  was  studying  assiduously  at  Poitiers,  when, 
in  February,  1579,  an  accident  occurred  which  ruined 
his  hopes  of  an  early  entrance  upon  a  brilliant  career, 
converted  him  from  a  scholar  into  an  adventurer,  and,  in 
his  own  phrase,  made  it  incumbent  on  him  "  to  think 
how  to  live,  instead  of  living  only  to  think."  A  barber 
it  was  who  thus  decided  the  fate  of  a  philosopher.  His 
father,  while  undergoing  (he  process  of  sliaving,  hap- 
pened to  fall  asleep  ;  and,  so  deep  was  the  reverence  of 
the  barber  for  the  Lord  Keeper  of  the  Great  Seal,  that 
he  did  not  presume  to  shake  into  consciousness  so  august 
a  personage,  but  stood  gazing  at  him  in  wondering  ad- 
miration. Unfortunately  a  draft  of  air  from  an  open  win- 
dow was  blowing  all  the  while  on  "  the  second  prop  of 
the  kingdom,"  and  murdering  him  by  inches.  Sir  Nich- 
olas awoke  shivering ;  and,  on  being  informed  by  the 
barber  that  respect  for  his  dignity  was  the  cause 
of  his  not  having  been  roused,  he  quietly  said,  "  Your 


BACON.  287 

politeness  has  cost  me  my  life."  In  two  days  after  he 
died.  A  considerable  sum  of  money,  which  he  had  laid 
by  in  order  to  purchase  a  landed  estate  for  Francis,  was 
left  unappropriated  to  that  purpose ;  and  Francis,  on 
his  return  from  France,  found  that  he  had  to  share  with 
four  others  the  amount  which  his  father  had  intended  for 
him  alone.  Thus  left  comparatively  poor,  he  solicited 
his  uncle,  the  Lord  Treasurer,  for  some  political  office, 
and,  had  his  abilities  been  less  splendid,  he  would 
doubtless  ha%-e  succeeded  in  his  suit;  but  Burleigh's 
penetrating  eye  recognized  in  him  talents  in  compari- 
son with  which  the  talents  of  his  own  favorite  son,  Rob- 
ert Cecil,  were  dwarfed  ;  and,  as  his  heart  was  set  on 
Cecil's  succeeding  to  his  own  great  offices,  he  is  sus- 
pected to  have  systematically  "  suppressed  "  the  nephew 
in  order  that  the  nephew  should  not  have  the  opportu- 
nity of  making  himself  a  powerful  I'ival  of  the  son. 

Bacon,  therefore,  had  no  other  resource  but  the  pro- 
fession of  the  law;  and  for  six  years,  between  1580  and/ 
1586,  he  bent  his  powerful  mind  to  its  study.  He  then 
again  applied  to  Burleigh,  hoping,  through  the  latter's 
influence,  to  be  "  called  within  bars,"  and  to  be  able  at 
once  to  practise.  He  was  testily  denied.  Two  years 
afterwards,  however,  he  was  made  "  counsel  learned  ex- 
traordinary "  to  the  Queen.  This  was  an  office  of  honor 
rather    than    profit ;    but,    as  it  gave   him   access    to 


288  BACON. 

Elizabeth,  it  might  have  led  to  his  political  advance- 
ment, had  not  his  good  cousin  Cecil,  ever  at  her  ear, 
represented  him  as  a  speculative  man,  "  indulging  in 
philosophic  reveries,  and  calculated  more  to  perplex 
than  promote  public  business."  Probably  he  obtained 
this  idea  from  a  letter  written  by  Bacon  to  Burleigh,  in 
1591,  in  which  —  wearied  with  waiting  on  fortune, 
troubled  with  poverty,  and  haunted  by  the  rebuking  vis- 
ion of  his  grand  philosophical  scheme  —  he  solicits  him 
for  some  employment  adequate  for  his  support,  and  which 
will,  at  the  same  time,  leave  him  leisure  to  become  a 
"  pioneer  in  the  deep  mines  of  truth."  "  Not  being 
born,"  he  says,  "  under  Sol,  that  loveth  honor,  nor  under 
Jupiter,  that  loveth  business,  but  being  wholly  carried 
away  by  the  contemplative  planet,"  he  proceeds  to  fol- 
low up  this  modest  disclaimer  of  being  influenced  by  the 
ambitions  which  engrossed  the  Cecils,  with  the  proud, 
the  imperial  declaration,  that  he  has  "  vast  contemplative 
ends,  though  moderate  civil  ends,"  and  "  has  taken  all 
knowledge  for  his  province."  This  appeal  had  no  effect ; 
and  a§  the  reversion  he  held  of  the  registrarship  of  the 
Star  Chamber,  worth  £  1,600  a  year,  did  not  fall  in 
until  twenty- years  afterwards,  he  was  still  fretted  with 
poverty,  and  had  to  give  to  law  and  politics  the  precious 
hours  to  which  philosophy  would  have  asserted  an  ex- 
clusive claim. 


BACON.  289 

But  politics^  and  law  as  connected  with  politics,  were, 
in  Bacon's  time,  occupations  by  which  Bacon  could  suc- 
ceed only  at  the  expense  of  discrediting  himself  with 
posterity.  Whatever  may  have  been  his  motives  for  de- 
siring power,  —  and  they  were  doubtless  neither  wholly 
selfish  nor  wholly  noble,  —  power  could  be  obtained 
only  by  submitting  to  the  conditions  by  which  power 
was  then  hampered.  In  submitting  to  these  conditions, 
Bacon  the  politician  may  be  said  to  have  agreed  with 
Bacon  the  philosopher ;  as  the  same  objectivity  of  mind 
which,  as  a  philosopher,  led  him  to  seek  the  law  of  phe- 
nomena in  nature,  and  not  in  the  intelligence,  led  him 
as  a  polidcian  to  seek  the  law  of  political  action  in  cir- 
cumstances, and  not  in  conscience.  "  Nature  is  com- 
manded by  obeying  her,"  is  his  great  philosophical 
maxim.  Events  are  commanded  by  obeying  them,  was 
probably  his  guiding  maxim  of  civil  prudence.  In  each 
case  the  principle  was  derived  from  without,  and  not  from 
within  ;  and  he  doubtless  thought  that,  as  in  the  one 
case  it  led  to  power  over  nature,  so  in  the  other  it  would 
lead  to  power  over  states.  As  his  political  life  must  be 
considered  an  immense  mistake  ;  as  the  result  of  his 
theory  in  civil  affairs  was,  to  make  him  the  servant,  and 
not  the  master,  of  his  intended  instruments  ;  as  he  was 
constantly  inferior  in  power  to  persons  inferior  to  him  in 
mind  ;  as  he  had  to  do  the  bidding  of  masters  who  would 
13  s 


290  BACON. 

not  profit  by  his  advice  ;  and  as  his  wisdom  was  no 
match,  in  the  real  tug  of  affairs,  for  men  who  acted  either 
from  good  or  from  bad  impulses  and  instincts,  —  it  is 
well  to  trace  his  failure  to  its  source.  The  fault  was 
partly  in  Bacon,  partly  in  his  times,  and  partly  inherent 
in  politics.  He  thought  he  possessed  the  genius  of 
action,  because,  in  addition  to  his  universality  of  mind 
and  universality  of  acquirement,  he  was  the  deepest  ob- 
server of  men,  had  the  broadest  comprehension  of 
affairs,  and  could  give  the  wisest  counsel,  of  any  states- 
man of  his  time.  He  was  practically  sagacious  beyond 
even  the  Cecils  ;  for  if  they  could,  better  than  he,  see 
an  inch  before  the  nose,  he  could  see  the  continuation 
of  that  inch  along  a  line  of  a  thousand  miles.  Still  his 
was  not  specially  the  genius  of  action,  but  the  genius 
which  tells  how  to  act  wisely.  In  the  genius  of  action, 
the  mind  is  passionately  concentrated  in  the  will ;  in  the 
genius  which  tells  how  to  act  wisely,  the  force  of  the 
will  is  somewhat  expended  in  enlarging  the  area  over 
which  the  mind  sends  its  glance.  In  the  genius  of  ac- 
tion, there  is  commonly  more  or  less  effrontery,  wilful- 
ness, cunning,  narrowing  of  the  mind  to  the  mere  busi- 
ness of  the  moment,  with  little  foresight  of  consequences  ; 
in  the  genius  which  tells  how  to  act  wisely  there  is  true 
practical  wisdom.  Unhappily,  principles  are,  in  politics, 
so  complicated  with  passions,  and  power  is  so  oiten  the 


BACON.  291 

prize  of  insolent  demerit,  that  the  two  have  rarely  been 
conibineJ  in  one  statesman  ;  and  history  exhibits  scores  of 
sterile  and  stunted  intellects,  pushed  by  rough  force  into 
ruling  positions,  for  one  instance  of  comprehensive  in- 
telligence impelled  by  audacious  will. 

As  a  politician.  Bacon  had  a  difficult  game  to  play. 
Entering  the  House  of  Commons  in  1593,  he  at  once 
showed  himself  the  ablest  speaker  and  debater  of  his 
time.  It  is  said  that  Lord  Eldon,  the  stanchest  of  Tories, 
declai-ed  in  his  old  age,  that,  if  he  could  recommence  his 
political  career,  he  would  begin  "in  the  sedition  line"; 
and  Bacon  at  first  tried  the  expedient  of  attacking  a 
government  measure,  in  order  to  force  his  abilities  oa 
the  notice  of  Burleigh,  and  perhaps  obtain  by  fear  what 
he  could  not  obtain  by  favor.  But  the  reign  of  the 
haughty  and  almost  absolute  Elizabeth  was  not  the 
period  for  such  tactics,  and  he  narrowly  escaped  arrest 
and  punishment.  He  then  recurred  to  a  design,  formed 
three  years  before,  of  opposing  the  Lord  Treasurer  by 
means  of  a  rival ;  for  at  the  court  and  in  the  councils 
of  the  Q.R-en  there  were  two  factions,  —  one  devoted  to 
Burleigh,  tlie  counsellor  of  Elizabeth,  the  other  to  the 
Earl  of  Essex,  her  lover.  These  factions  were  divided 
by  no  principle ;  the  question  was  not,  how  should  the 
government  be  carried  on,  but  by  whom  should  the  gov- 
ernment be  carried  on  ;  and  the  object  of  each  was  to 


292  BACON. 

engross  the  favor  of  Elizabeth,  in  order  to  engross  the 
power  and  patronage  of  office.  Bacon,  judging  that 
Essex,  who  held  the  Queen's  affections,  would  be  suc- 
cessful over  Burleigh,  who  only  held  her  judgment,  had 
already  attached  himself  to  the  fortunes  of  Essex.  It 
may  be  added  that,  as  his  grand  philosophical  scheme 
for  the  interpretation  of  nature  depended  on  the  patron- 
age of  government  for  its  complete  success,  he  saw  that, 
if  Essex  triumphed,  he  might  be  able  to  gratify  his 
philosophic  as  well  as  political  ambition ;  for  the  Earl, 
with  every  fault  that  can  coexist  with  valor,  generosity, 
and  frankness,  —  fierce,  proud,  wilful,  licentious,  and 
headstrong,  —  had  still  a  soul  sensitive  to  literary  as  to 
military  glory,  while  Burleigh  was  indifferent  to  both. 
It  may  be  doubted  if  Bacon  was  capable  of  intense,  all- 
sacrificing  friendship  for  anybody,  especially  for  a  man 
like  Essex.  It  is  probable  that  what  his  sagacity  de- 
tected as  the  rule  which  governed  the  political  friend- 
ships of  Csesar  may  to  some  extent  apply  to  his  own. 
"  Cresar,"  he  says,  "made  choice  of  such  friends  as  a  man 
might  easily  see  that  he  chose  them  rather  to  be  instru- 
ments to  his  ends  than  for  any  good-will  to  them."  But 
it  is  still  certain  that  for  ten  years  he  was  the  wisest 
counsellor  of  Essex,  by  his  admirable  management  kept 
the  Earl's  haughty  and  headlong  spirit  under  some  con- 
trol of  wisdom,  and  never  allowed  him  to  take  a  false 


BACON.  293 

step  without  honestly  pointing  out  its  folly.     lie  was  the 
Philippe  de  Coraraines  to  this  Charles  the  Rash. 

Essex,  on  his  part,  urged  the  claims  of  Bacon  with 
the  same  impetuosity  with  which  he  threw  himself  into 
everything  he  undertook.  But  he  constantly  failed.  In 
1594  he  tried  to  get  Bacon  appointed  Attorney-General, 
and  he  failed.  He  then  tried  to  get  Bacon  appointed 
Solicitor-General,  and  failed,  —  failed  not  hecause  the 
Queen  was  hostile  to  Bacon,  but  because  she  desired  to 
show  that  she  was  not  enslaved  by  Essex.  He  then 
urged  Bacon's  suit  to  Lady  Hatton,  whom  Bacon  de- 
sired to  marry,  not  for  her  temper,  which  was  that  of  an 
eccentric  termagant,  but  for  her  fortune  ;  and  here,  for- 
tunately for  Bacon,  he  again  failed.  He  then  gave 
Bacon  a  landed  estate,  which  Bacon  sold  for  £  1,800  ; 
and  soon  afterwards  Bacon  was  in  such  pecuniary  dis- 
tress as  to  be  arrested  and  sent  to  a  sponging-house,  for 
a  debt  of  £  500.  Such  were  the  obligations  of  Bacon 
to  Essex.  What  were  the  obligations  of  Essex  to 
Bacon  ?  Ten  years  of  faithful  service,  ten  years  of  the 
"  time  and  talents  "  of  the  best  head  for  large  affairs  in 
Europe.  At  last  the  Queen  and  Essex  quarrelled. 
Bacon,  himself  serenely  superior  to  passion,  but  adroit 
in  calming  the  passions  of  others,  exerted  infinite  skill 
and  address  to  reconcile  them ;  but  the  temper  of  each 
was  too  haughty  to  yield.     The  occasion  of  the  final 


294  BACON. 

and  deadly  feud  between  them  looks  ludicrous  as  the 
decisive  event  in  the  life  of  a  hero.  Essex  held  a 
monopoly  of  sweet  wines ;  that  is,  the  Queen  had 
granted  to  him,  for  a  certain  period,  the  exclusive  privi- 
lege of  plundering  all  her  subjects  who  drauk  sweet 
wines.  He  asked  for  a  renewal  of  his  patent,  and  was 
refused.  Taking  this  refusal  as  a  proof  that  his  enemies 
were  triumphant  at  court,  he  then  organized  a  for- 
midable conspiracy  against  the  govei'nrnent,  and,  for  a 
purely  personal  object,  without  the  pretence  of  any  pub- 
lic aim,  attempted  to  seize  the  Queen's  person,  over- 
turn her  government,  and  convulse  the  kingdom  with 
civil  war.  He  was  arrested,  tried,  and  executed.  Ba- 
con, as  Queen's  counsel,  appeared  against  him  on  his 
trial,  and,  by  the  Queen's  command,  wrote  a  narrative 
of  the  facts  which  justified  the  government  in  its  course. 
For  this  most  of  his  biographers  represent  him  as  guilty 
of  the  foulest  treachery,  ingratitude,  and  baseness.  Let 
us  see  how  it  probably  appeared  to  Bacon.  The  asso- 
ciation of  politicians  of  which  Essex  was  the  head,  and 
to  which  Bacon  belonged,  was  an  association  to  obtain 
power  and  office  by  legal  means  ;  treason  and  insurrec- 
tion were  not  in  the  "  platform  "  ;  and  the  rule  of  honor 
which  applies  to  such  a  body  is  plain.  It  is  treacherous 
for  any  of  the  followers  to  betray  the  leader,  but  it  is 
also  treacherous  for  the  leader  to  betray  any  of  the  fol- 


BACON.  295 

lowers.  Nobody  pretends  that  Bacon  betrayed  Essex, 
but  it  is  very  evident  that  Essex  betrayed  Bacon ;  for 
Bacon,  the  confidant,  as  he  supposed,  of  the  most  secret 
thoughts  and  designs  of  Essex,  liable  to  be  compromised 
by  his  acts,  and  aheady  lying  under  the  suspicion  and 
displeasure  of  Elizabeth  on  account  of  his  strenuous 
advocacy  of  the  Earl's  claims  to  her  continued  favor, 
suddenly  discovers  tliat  Essex  had  given  way  to  passions 
as  selfish  as  they  were  furious  ;  that  he  hud  committed 
high-treason,  and  recklessly  risked  the  fortunes  of  his 
political  friends,  as  well  as  personal  confederates,  on  the 
hazard  of  an  enterprise  as  wicked  as  it  was  mad. 
Henry  Wotton,  who  was  private  secretary  to  Essex, 
but  not  engaged  in  the  conspiracy,  still  thought  it  pru- 
dent to  escape  to  the  Continent,  and  not  trust  to  the 
chances  of  a  trial ;  and  Bacon  was  more  in  the  confi- 
dence of  Essex  than  Wotton.  If  Essex  had  no  con- 
science in  extricating  himself  from  his  diflliculties  by 
treason,  why  blame  Bacon  for  extricating  himself  from 
complicity  with  Essex  by  censuring  his  treason  ?  To 
the  indignation  that  Bacon  must  have  felt  in  finding 
himself  duped  and  betrayed  by  the  man  whose  interests 
he  had  identified  with  his  own  must  be  added  his  indig- 
nation at  the  trca-on  itself;  for  the  politician  had  not 
so  completely  absorbed  the  patriot  but  that  he  may  have 
felt  genuine  horror  at  the  idea  of  compassing  personal 


296  BACON. 

ends  by  civil  war.  In  the  case  of  Essex,  the  crime  was 
really  aggravated  by  the  ingratitude  which  Bacon's 
critics  charge  on  himself.  Bacon,  it  seems,  was  a  mean- 
spirited  wretch,  because  he  did  not  see  the  friend  who 
had  given  him  £  1,800  in  the  public  enemy.  But  is  it 
to  be  supposed  that  a  friend  will  be  more  constant  than 
a  lover?  And  Essex,  the  lover  of  the  Queen,  made 
war  upon  her,  —  upon  her  who,  frugal  as  she  was  in 
dispensing  honors  and  money,  had  lavished  both  on  him. 
She  had  given  him  in  all  what  would  now  be  equivalent 
to  £  300,000  ;  and  then,  on  her  refusal  to  allow  him  to 
continue  cheating  those  of  her  subjects  who  drank  sweet 
wines,  the  exasperated  hero  attempted  to  overthrow  her 
government.  But  Essex  acted  from  his  passions,  — 
and  passions,  it  seems,  atone  for  more  sins  than  even 
charity  can  cover.  History  itself  has  here  sided  against 
reason ;  and  the  fame  of  Bacon,  the  intellectual  bene- 
factor of  the  World,  will  probably,  through  all  time,  be 
sacrificed  to  that  of  this  hot-blooded,  arrogant,  self- 
willed,  and  greedy  noble.  Intellect  is  often  selfish  ;  but 
nothing  is  more  frightfully  selfish,  after  all,  than  passion. 
It  would  be  well  if  the  character  of  Bacon  were 
justly  open  to  no  severer  charge  than  that  founded  on 
his  connection  with  Essex.  But  "  worse  remains  be- 
hind." In  1603  Elizabeth  died,  and  James,  King  of 
Scotland,  succeeded  to  the  English  throne.     Bacon  at 


BACON.  297 

once  detected  in  him  the  characteristic  defect  of  all  the 
Stuarts.  '•  Methought,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend,  '•  his 
Majesty  rather  a^ked  counsel  of  the  time  past  than  of 
the  time  to  come."  Yet  he  paid  assiduous  court  to 
James,  and  especially  won  his  favor  by  advocating  in 
Parliament  the  union  of  England  and  Scotland.  By  a 
combination  of  hard  work  and  soft  compliances  he  grad- 
ually obtained  the  commanding  positions,  though  not 
the  commanding  influence,  of  his  political  ambition.  In 
1G09  he  was  made  Solicitor-General;  in  IG 13,  Attor- 
ney-General ;  in  1610,  Privy  Councillor  ;  in  1617,  Lord 
Keeper;  in  1618,  Lord  Chancellor  and  Baron  Veru- 
1am;  in  1021,  Viscount  St.  Albans.  These  eighteen 
3'ears  of  his  life  exhibit  an  almost  unparalleled  activity 
and  fertility  of  mind  in  law,  politics,  literature,  and  phi- 
losophy ;  but  in  the  reign  of  James  L  no  man  could 
rise  to  the  positions  which  Bacon  readied  without  com- 
promises with  conscience  and  compromises  with  intelli- 
gence whicii  it  is  doubtless  provoking  that  Bacon  did  not 
scorn.  Even  if  we  could  pardon  these  compromises  on 
the  principle  that  events  must  be  obeyed  in  order  to  be 
commanded,  it  is  still  plain  that  his  obedience  did  not 
lead  to  real  command.  lie  unquestionably  expected 
that  his  position  would  enable  him  to  draw  the  gov- 
ernment into  his  philosophical  scheme  of  waging  a 
systematic  war  on  Nature,  with  an  army  of  investi- 
13* 


298  BACON. 

gators,  to  force  her  to  deliver  up  her  secrets  ;  but  the 
Solomon  who  was  then  king  of  England  preferred  to 
spend  his  money  on  quite  different  objects ;  and  Bacon's 
compliances,  therefore,  gave  him  as  little  real  power 
over  Nature  as  real  power  in  the  direction  of  affairs. 
As  it  is  our  purpose  not  to  excuse,  but  to  explain. 
Bacon's  conduct,  —  to  identify  the  Bacon  who  during 
this  period  wrote  The  Advancement  of  Learning,  The 
"Wisdom  of  the  Ancients,  and  the  Novum  Organum, 
with  the  Bacon  who  within  the  same  period  was  con- 
nected with  the  abuses  of  James's  administration,  —  let 
us  survey  his  character  in  relation  to  his  times.  He 
lived  in  an  epoch  when  the  elements  of  the  English 
Constitution  were  in  a  state  of  anarchy.  The  King 
was  following  that  executive  instinct  which  brought  the 
head  of  his  son  to  the  block.  The  House  of  Commons 
was  following  that  legislative  instinct  which  eventually 
gave  it  the  control  of  the  executive  administration. 
James  talked,  and  feebly  acted,  in  the  spirit  of  an  abso- 
lute monarch,  looked  upon  the  House  of  Commons  as 
only  an  instrument  for  getting  at  the  money  of  his  sub- 
jects, and  when  it  occupied  itself  in  presenting  griev- 
ances, instead  of  voting  subsidies,  either  dissolved  it  in  a 
pet  or  yielded  to  it  in  a  fright.  Had  Bacon's  nature 
been  as  intense  as  it  was  sagacious,  had  he  been  a  reso- 
lute statesman   of  the   good  or  bad  type,  this  was  the 


BACON.  299 

time  for  him  to  have  anticipated  Hampden  in  the  Com- 
mons, or  Strafford  in  the  Council,  and  given  himself, 
body  and  soul,  to  the  cause  of  freedom  or  the  cause  of 
lespotism.  He  did  neither ;  and  there  is  nothing  in  his 
writings  which  would  lead  us  to  suppose  that  he  could 
have  done  either.  The  written  advice  he  gave  James 
and  Buckingham  on  the  improvement  of  the  law,  oq 
church  affairs,  and  on  affairs  of  state,  would,  if  it  had 
been  followed,  have  saved  England  from  the  necessity 
for  the  Long  Parliament,  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  "William 
of  Orange.  As  it  was,  he  probably  prevented  more  evil 
than  he  was  made  the  instrument  of  committing.  But, 
after  counselling  wisely,  he,  like  other  statesmen  of  his 
time,  consented  to  act  against  his  own  advice.  He  lent 
the  aid  of  his  professional  skill  to  the  court,  yet  rather 
as  a  lawyer  who  obeys  a  client  than  as  a  statesman  re- 
sponsible to  his  country.  And  the  mischief  was,  that  his 
mind,  like  all  comprehensive  minds,  was  so  fertile  in 
those  reasons  which  convert  what  is  abstractly  wrong 
into  what  is  relatively  right,  that  he  could  easily  find 
maxims  of  state  to  justify  the  attorney-general  in  doing 
what  the  statesman  in  the  attorney-general  condemned, 
especially  as  the  practice  of  these  maxims  enabled  the 
attorney-general  to  keep  his  office  and  to  hope  for  a 
higher  one.  This  was  largely  the  custom  with  all  Eng- 
lish public  men  down  to  the  time  when  "  parliamentary 


300  BACON. 

government "  was  thoroughly  established.  Besides,  Ba- 
con's attention  was  scattered  over  too  many  objects  to 
allow  of  an  all-excluding  devotion  to  one.  He  could  not 
be  a  Hampden  or  a  Strafford,  because  he  was  Bacon. 
Accomplished  as  a  courtier,  politician,  orator,  lawyer,  ju- 
rist, statesman,  man  of  letters,  philosopher,  with  a  wide- 
wandering  mind  that  swept  over  the  domain  of  positive 
knowledge  only  to  turn  dissatisfied  into  those  vast  and 
lonely  tracts  of  meditation  where  future  sciences  and 
inventions  slept  in  their  undiscovered  principles,  it  was 
impossible  that  a  man  thus  hundred-eyed  should  be 
single-handed.  He  also  lacked  two  elements  of  strength 
which  in  that  day  lent  vigor  to  action  by  contracting 
thonght  and  inflaming  passion.  He  was  without  politi- 
cal and  theological  prejudice,  and  he  was  without 
political  and  theological  malignity. 

But,  it  may  be  asked,  if  he  was  too  broad  for  the 
passions  of  politics,  why  did  he  become  a  politician 
at  all  ?  First,  because  he  was  an  Englishman,  the 
son  of  the  Keeper  of  the  Great  Seal,  and  had 
breathed  an  atmosphere  of  politics  —  and  of  not  very 
scrupulous  politics  —  from  his  cradle;  second,  because, 
well  as  he  thought  he  understood  nature,  he  under- 
stood human  nature  far  better,  and  was  tempted  into 
affairs  by  conscious  talent ;  and  third,  because  he  was 
poor,  dependent,  bad  immense  needs,  and  saw  that  poll- 


BACON.  301 

tics  had  led  his  father  and  uncle  to  wealth  and  power. 
And,  coming  to  the  heart  of  the  matter,  if  it  be  a^ked 
why  a  mind  of  t^uch  grandeur  aud  comprehensiveness 
should  sacrifice  its  iutegiity  for  such  wealth  as  office 
could  give,  and  such  titles  as  James  could  bestow,  we 
can  answer  the  qiestion  intelligently  onl}'  by  looking  at 
wealth  and  titles  through  Bacon's  eyes.  His  conscience 
was  weakened  by  that  which  gives  such  splendor 
and  attractiveness  to  his  writings,  —  his  imagination. 
lie  was  a  philosopher,  but  a  philosopher  in  whose  char- 
acter imagination  was  co-ordinated  with  reason.  This 
imagination  was  not  merely  a  quality  of  his  intellsct, 
but  an  element  of  his  nature:  and  as,  through  its  in- 
stinctive workings,  he  was  not  content  to  send  out  his 
thoughts  stoically  bare  of  adornm"nt,  or  limping  and 
ragged  in  cynic  squalor,  but  clothed  them  in  purple  and 
gol  1,  and  made  them  move  in  majestic  cadences  :  so  also, 
througli  his  imagination,  he  saw,  in  external  pomp  and 
affluence  and  high  place,  something  that  corresponded 
to  his  own  inward  opulence  and  autocracy  of  intellect; 
recognized  in  them  the  superb  and  fitting  adjuncts  and 
symbols  of  his  internal  greatness;  and,  investing  them 
with  a  glory  not  their  own,  felt  that  in  them  the  great 
Bacon  was  clotlied  in  outward  circum.-tance,  that  the  in- 
visible person  was  made  palpable  to  the  senses,  embod- 
ied and  expressed  to  all  eyes  as  the  man 


302  BACON. 

Whom  a  wise  king  and  Nature  chose 
Lord  Chancellor  of  both  their  Laws." 

So  strong  was  this  illusion,  that,  when  hurled  from 
power  and  hunted  by  creditors,  he  refused  to  raise  money 
by  cutting  down  the  woods  of  his  estate.  "  I  will  not,"  he 
said,  "  be  stripped  of  my  fine  feathers."  He  bad  so 
completely  ensouled  the  accompaniments  and  "  compli- 
ment extern"  of  greatness,  that  he  felt,  in  losing  them, 
as  if  portions  of  the  outgrowth  of  bis  being  had  been 
rudely  lopped. 

But  a  day  of  reckoning  was  at  band,  which  was  to 
dissipate  all  this  visionary  splendor,  and  show  the  hol- 
lowness  of  all  accomplishments  when  unaccompanied  by 
simple  integrity.  Bacon  bad  idly  drifted  with  the 
stream  of  abuses,  until  at  last  he  partook  of  them.  It  is 
to  his  credit,  that,  in  1621,  he  strenuously  advised  the 
calling  of  the  Parliament  by  which  he  was  impeached. 
The  representatives  of  the  people  met  in  a  furious  mood, 
and  exhibited  a  menacing  attitude  towards  the  court  ; 
and  the  King,  thoroughly  cowed,  made  haste  to  give  up 
to  their  vengeful  justice  the  culprits  at  whom  they 
aimed.  Bacon  was  impeached  for  corruption  in  his 
high  office,  and,  in  indesci  ibable  agony  and  abasement 
of  spirit,  was  compelled  by  tlie  King  to  plead  guilty  to 
the  charges,  of  a  large  portion  of  wliich  he  was  certainly 
innocent.     The  great  Chancellor  has  ever  since  been 


BACON.  303 

imaged  to  the  honest  English  inoagination  as  a  man  with 
his  head  high  up  in  the  heaven  of  contemplation, 
seemingly  absorbed  in  sublime  meditations,  while  his 
hand  is  held  stealthily  out  to  receive  a  bribe  !  On  the 
degree  of  his  moral  guilt  it  is  difficult  at  this  time  to 
decide.  The  probability  seems  to  be  that,  in  accord- 
ance with  a  general  custom,  he  and  his  dependents  re- 
ceived presents  from  the  suitors  in  his  court.  The  pres- 
ents were  given  to  influence  his  decision  of  cases.  He 
—  at  once  profuse  and  poor  —  took  presents  from  both 
parties,  and  then  decided  according  to  the  law.  He 
was  exposed  by  those  who,  having  given  money,  were 
exasperated  at  receiving  "killing  decrees"  in  return, — 
who  found  that  Bacon  did  not  sell  injustice,  but  justice. 
He  was  sentenced  to  pay  a  fine  of  £  40,000  ;  to  be  im- 
prisoned in  the  Tower  during  the  King's  pleasure; 
to  be  forever  incapable  of  holding  any  public  office, 
place,  or  employment  ;  and  forbidden  to  sit  in  Par- 
liament or  come  within  the  verge  of  the  Court.  Bacon 
seems  himself  to  have  considered  that  a  notorious 
abuse,  in  which  other  chancellors  had  participated, 
was  reformed  in  his  punishment.  He  is  reported  to 
have  said,  afterwards,  in  conversation,  "  I  was  the  just- 
est  judge  that  was  in  England  these  fifty  years  ;  but  it 
was  the  justest  censure  in  Parliament  that  was  these 
two  hundred  years."     The  courts  of  Russia   are   now 


304  BACON. 

notoriously  corrupt ;  in  some  future  time,  when  the  na- 
tion imperatively  demands  a  reformation  of  the  judicial 
tribunals,  some  great  Russian,  famous  as  a  tliinker  and 
man  of  letters  as  well  as  judge,  will,  though  compara- 
tively innocent,  be  selected  as  a  victim,  and  the  whole 
system  be  rendered  infamous  in  his  condemnation. 

Bacon  lived  five  years  after  his  disgrace ;  and,  during 
these  years,  tiiougli  plagued  by  creditors  and  vexed  by 
domestic  disquiet,  he  prosecuted  his  literary  and  scien- 
tific labors  vvitli  singular  vigor  and  success.  In  revising 
old  works,  in  producing  new,  and  in  projecting  even 
greater  ones  than  he  produced,  he  displayed  an  energy 
and  opulence  of  mind  wonderful  even  in  him.  lie  died 
on  tlie  9th  of  April,  1G26,  in  consequence  of  a  cold 
caught  in  trying  an  experiment  to  ascertain  if  flesh 
might  not  be  preserved  in  snow  as  well  as  salt ;  and 
his  consolation  in  his  la«t  hours  was,  that  the  "ex- 
periment succeeded  excellently  well."  There  are  two 
testimonials  to  him,  after  he  was  hurled  from  power  and 
place,  which  convey  a  vivid  idea  of  the  benignant  stateli- 
ness  of  his  personal  presence,  —  of  the  impres.-ion  he 
made  on  those  contemporaries  who  were  at  once  his 
intimiites  and  subordinates,  and  who,  in  the  most  famil- 
iar intercourse,  felt  and  honored  the  ea^y  dignity  with 
which  his  greatness  was  worn.  "  My  conceit  of  his 
person,"  says  Ben  Jonson, "  was  never  increased  towards 


BACON.  305 

him  by  his  place  or  honors ;  but  I  have  and  do  rever- 
ence him  for  the  greatness  that  was  only  proper  to  him- 
self; in  that  he  seemed  to  me  ever,  by  his  woik,  one 
of  the  greatest  men,  and  most  worthy  of  admiration, 
that  had  been  in  many  ages.  In  his  adversity,  I  ever 
prayed  that  God  would  give  him  strength ;  for  greatness 
he  could  not  want."  And  Dr.  Rawley,  his  domestic 
chaplain,  who  saw  him  as  he  appeared  in  the  most 
familiar  relations  of  his  home,  remarks,  with  quaint 
veneration,  "  I  have  been  induced  to  think  that,  if  ever 
there  were  a  beam  of  knowledge  derived  from  God  upon 
any  man  in  these  modern  times,  it  was  upon  him." 


BACOIT, 


II. 


'E  propose  in  this  chapter  to  give  some  account  of 
Bacon's  writings  ;  and  the  first  place  in  such  au 
account  belongs  to  his  philo^ophical  works  relating  to 
the  interpretation  of  nature. 

As  Bacon,  from  his  boyhood,  was  a  thinker  living  in 
the  thick  of  affairs,  with  a  discursive  reason  held  in 
check  by  the  pressure  of  palpable  facts,  he  equally 
escaped  the  narrowness  of  the  secluded  student  and  the 
narrowness  of  the  practical  man  of  the  world.  It  was 
therefore  but  natural  that,  early  in  his  collegiate  life,  he 
should  feel  a  contempt  for  the  objects  and  the  methods 
of  the  pllilo^o[)hy  current  among  the  scholars  of  his 
time.  The  true  object  of  philosojhy  must  be  either  to 
increase  our  knowledge  or  add  to  our  power.  The  an- 
cient and  scholastic  systems  seemed  to  him  to  have 
failed  in  both.  They  had  not  discovered  truths,  they 
had  not  invented  arts.  Admitting  that  the  highest  use 
of  knowledge  was  the  pure  joy  it  affoided  the  intellect, 
and  that  its  lowest  use  was  its  ministration  to  tlie  practi- 
cal wants  of  man,  it  seemed  to  him  evident  that  their 


BACON.  307 

method  led  as  little  to  knowledge  that  enriched  the  mind 
as  to  knowledge  that  gave  cunning  to  the  hands.  Aim- 
ing at  self-culture  by  self-inspection,  rather  than  by  in- 
speclion  of  nature,  they  had  neglected,  he  thought,  tlie 
gi-eat  world  of  God  for  the  little  world  of  man  ;  so  that 
at  last  it  seemed  as  if  the  peculiar  distinction  of  knowl- 
edge consisted  in  knowing  that  nothing  could  be  known. 
But  the  question  migiit  arise,  "Was  not  the  barrenness 
of  their  results  due  to  the  selfish  littleness,  ratlier  than 
the  disinterested  elevation,  of  their  aim  ?  Introduce  into 
piiilosophy  a  philanthropic  motive,  make  man  the  thinker 
aid  man  the  laborer,  unite  contemplation  with  a  prac- 
tical purpose,  and  discard  the  idea  that  knowledge  was 
intended  for  the  exclusive  gratification  of  a  few  selected 
spirits,  and  philosophy  would  then  increase  in  largeness 
and  elevation  as  much  as  it  would  increase  in  useful- 
ness; for  if  such  a  revolution  in  its  spirit,  object,  and 
method  could  be  made,  it  would  continually  furnish  new 
truths  for  the  intellect  to  contemplate,  from  the  impetus 
given  to  the  discovery  of  new  truths  by  the  perception 
that  they  could  be  applied  to  relieve  human  necessities. 
If  it  were  objected  that  philosophy  could  not  stoop  from 
her  ethical  and  spiritual  heights  to  the  drudgery  of  in- 
vestigating natural  laws,  it  might  be  answered,  that  what 
God  had  condescended  to  create  it  surely  was  not  ig- 
noble in  man  to  examine  ;  "  for  that  which  is  deserving 


308  BACON. 

of  existence  is  deserving  of  knowledge,  the  image  of 
existence."  If  philosophers  had  a  higher  notion  of  their 
dignity,  Francis  Bacon  did  not  share  it ;  and,  accord- 
ingly, early  in  life  he  occupied  his  mind  in  devising  a 
method  of  investigating  the  secrets  of  nature  in  order 
to  wield  her  powers. 

The  conception  was  one  of  the  noblest  that  ever  en- 
tered tlie  mind  of  man  ;  but  was  it  accomplished  .''  As 
Bacon's  name  seems  to  be  stereotyped  in  popular  and 
scientific  speech  as  the  "  Father  of  the  Inductive  Sci- 
ence>,"  and  as  all  the  charity  refused  to  his  life  has  been 
heaped  upon  his  philosophical  labors,  it  may  seem  pre- 
sumptuous to  answer  this  question  in  the  negative ;  yet 
nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  the  inductive  sciences 
have  not  followed  the  method  which  he  invented,  and 
have  not  arrived  at  the  results  which  he  proposed  to 
accomplish. 

The  mistake,  as  it  regards  Bacon,  has  risen  princi- 
pally from  confounding  induction  with  the  Baconian 
method  of  induction.  If  we  were  to  tell  our  readers 
that  there  were  great  undiscovered  laws  in  nature,  and 
should  strongly  advise  them  to  examine  particular  facts 
with  great  care,  in  order  through  them  to  reach  the 
knowledge  of  those  laws,  we  should  recommend  the 
practice  of  induction  ;  but  even  if  they  should  heed  and 
follow  the  advice,  we  much  doubt  if  any  scientific  dis- 


BACON.  309 

coveries  would  ensue.  Indeed,  if  Bacon  himself  could 
hear  the  recomraeudation  made,  and  could  adopt  the 
modern  mode  of  spiritual  communication,  there  would 
be  a  succession  of  indignant  raps  on  the  editorial  table, 
which,  being  interpreted,  would  run  thus  :  "Ladies  and 
gentlemen,  the  mode  of  induction  recommended  to  you 
is  radically  vicious  and  incompetent.  Truth  cannot  be 
discovered  in  that  way ;  but  if  you  will  select  any  given 
matter  which  requires  investigation,  and  will  follow  the 
mechanical  mode  of  procedure  laid  down  in  my  method 
of  induction  (Novum  Organum,  Book  II.),  you  will  be 
able,  without  any  special  scientific  genius,  to  hunt  the 
very  form  and  essence  of  the  nature  you  seek  to  its  last 
hiding-place,  and  compel  it  to  yield  up  its  innermost 
secret.  All  that  is  required  is  common  capacity,  united 
with  persevering  labor  and  combination  of  purpose." 
Tiiis  is  not  exactly  Bacon's  rhetoric  ;  but,  as  spirits,  when 
they  leave  the  body,  seem  somehow  to  acquire  a  certain 
pinched  and  poverty-stricken  mode  of  expression,  it  will 
do  to  convey  his  idea. 

Bacon,  the  philosopher,  is  therefore  to  be  considered, 
not  as  a  man  who  invented  and  recommended  induction, 
for  induction  is  as  old  as  human  nature,  —  wa>,  in  fact, 
invented  by  Adam,  — and,  as  practised  in  Bacon's  time, 
was  the  mark  of  his  especial  scorn  ;  but  he  is  to  be  con- 
sidered as  one  who  invented  and  recommended  a  new 


310  BACON. 

method  of  induction,  a  system  of  precise  rules  to  guide 
induction,  a  new  logic,  or  organ,  which  was  to  supercede 
the  Aristotelian  logic.  He  proudly  called  it  his  art  of 
inventing  sciences.  A  method  of  investigation  presup- 
poses, of  course,  some  conception  of  the  objects  to  be 
investigated  ;  and  of  tlie  infinite  variety  and  complexity 
of  nature  Bacon  had  no  idea.  His  method  proceeds  on 
the  notion  that  all  the  phenomena  of  nature  are  capable 
of  being  referred  to  combinations  of  certain  ab-tract 
qualities  of  matter,  —  simple  natures,  which  are  limited 
in  number  if  difficult  of  access.  Such  are  density,  rarity, 
heat,  cold,  color,  levity,  tenuity,  weight,  and  the  like. 
These  are  the  alphabet  of  nature  ;  and,  as  all  words 
result  from  the  combination  of  a  few  letters,  so  all  {)he- 
nomena  result  from  the  combination  of  a  few  elements. 
What  is  gold,  for  example,  but  the  co-ordination  of  cer- 
tain qualities,  such  as  greatness  of  weight,  closeness 
of  parts,  fixation,  softness,  etc.  ?  Now,  if  the  causes 
of  these  simple  natures  were  known,  they  might  be 
combined  by  man  into  the  same  or  a  similar  substance  ; 
"  for,"  he  says,  "  if  anybody  can  make  a  metal  which 
has  all  these  properties,  let  men  dispute  whether  it  be 
gold  or  no."  But  these  qualities  are  not  ultimate  ;  tliey 
are  the  effects  of  causes,  and  a  knowledge  of  (he  causes 
will  enable  us  to  superinduce  the  effects.  The  connec- 
tion between  philosophy  and  practice  is  this,  that  what 


BACON.  311 

*  in  contemplation  stands  for  cause,  in  operation  stands 
for  means  or  instrument ;  for  we  know  by  causes  and 
operate  by  means."  The  object  of  pliilosophy,  there- 
fore, is  the  investigation  of  the  formal  causes  of  the 
primary  quahties  of  matter,  of  those  causes  which  are 
always  present  when  the  qualities  are  present,  always 
absent  wiicn  the  qualities  are  absent,  increase  with  their 
increase,  and  decrease  with  their  decrease.  Facts,  then, 
are  the  stairs  by  which  we  mount  into  the  region  of 
essences;  and,  grasping  and  directing  these,  we  can 
compel  nature  to  create  new  facts,  as  truly  natural  as 
those  she  spontamously  produces,  for  art  simply  gives 
its  own  direction  to  her  working. 

From  tliis  exposition  it  will  be  seen  how  little  founda- 
tion there  is  for  Dugald  Stewart's  remark,  that  Bacon 
avoided  the  fundamental  error  of  the  ancients,  according 
to  whom  "  philosophy  is  the  science  of  causes " ;  and 
also  for  the  assertion  oi  Comte  and  his  school,  that 
Bacon  was  the  father  of  positive  science.  There  is 
nothing  more  repugnant  to  a  po>itivist  than  the  introduc- 
tion into  science  of  causes  and  essences  ;  yet  it  was  after 
these  that  Bacon  aimed.  "  The  spirit  of  man,"  he  says, 
"  is  as  the  lamp  of  God,  wherewith  he  scarcheth  the 
inwardness  of  all  secrets."  The  word  he  uses  is 
"Form,"  but  Form  with  him  is  both  cause  and  esence, 
an  immanent  cause,  a  cause  that  cr'^ates  a  permanent 


312  BACON. 

quality.  If  he  sometimes  uses  Form  as  synonymous 
with  Law,  the  sense  in  which  he  understands  Law  is  not 
merely  the  mode  in  which  a  force  operates,  but  the 
force  itself.  Indeed,  there  is  reason  to  suppose  that, 
much  as  he  decries  Plato,  he  was  still  willing  to  use 
Form  as  identical  with  Idea,  in  the  Platonic  sense  of 
Idea ;  for  in  an  aphorism  in  which  he  severely  condemns 
the  projection  of  human  conceits  upon  natural  objects, 
he  remarks  that  "  there  is  no  small  difference  between 
the  idols  of  the  human  mind  and  the  ideas  of  the  Di- 
vine Mind,  that  is  to  say,  between  certain  idle  dogmas 
and  the  real  stamp  and  impression  of  created  objects  as 
they  are  found  in  Nature."  Coleridge  had  perhaps 
this  aphorism  in  mind  when  he  called  Bacon  the  British 
Plato. 

The  object  of  Bacon's  philosophy,  then,  is  the  inves- 
tigation of  the  forms  of  simple  natures ;  his  method  is 
the  path  the  understanding  must  pursue  in  order  to 
arrive  at  this  object.  Tliis  method  is  a  most  ingenious 
but  cumbrous  macliinery  for  collecting,  tabling,  sifting, 
testing,  and  rejecting  facts  of  observation  and  experi- 
ment which  have  any  relation  to  the  nature  sought.  It 
begins  with  inclusion  and  proceeds  by  exclusion.  It  has 
affirmative  tables,  negative  tables,  tables  of  comparison, 
tables  of  exclusion,  tables  of  prerogative  instances. 
From  the  mass  of  individual  facts  originally  collected 


BACON.  313 

everything  is  eliminated,  until  nothing  is  left  but  the 
form  or  cause  which  is  sought.  The  field  of  induction 
is  confined,  as  it  were,  within  a  triangular  space,  at  the 
base  of  which  are  the  facts  obtained  by  observation  and 
experiment.  From  these  the  investigator  proceeds  in- 
wards, by  comparison  and  exclusion,  constantly  narrow- 
ing the  field  as  he  advances,  until  at  hist,  all  non-essen- 
tials being  rejected,  nothing  is  left  but  the  pure  form. 

Nobody  can  read  the  details  of  this  method,  as  given 
at  length  in  the  second  book  of  the  Novum  Organum, 
without  admiration  for  the  prodigious  consti'uctive  power 
of  Bacon's  mind.  The  twenty-seven  tables  of  preroga- 
tive instances,  or  "  the  comparative  value  of  facts  as 
means  of  investigation,"  would  alone  be  sufficient  to  prove 
the  comprehensiveness  of  his  intellect  and  its  capacity 
of  ideal  classification.  But  still  the  method  is  a  splendid, 
unrealized,  and  we  may  add,  incompleted,  dream.  He 
never  himself  discovered  anything  by  its  use.  Nobody 
since  his  time  has  discovered  anything  by  its  use.  And 
the  reason  is  plain.  Apart  from  its  positive  defects,  there 
is  this  general  criticism  to  be  made,  that  a  true  method 
must  be  a  generalization  from  the  mental  processes 
which  have  been  followed  in  discovery  and  invention  ;  it 
cannot  precede  them.  If  Bacon  really  had  devised  the 
method  which  succeeding  men  of  science  slavishly  fol- 
lowed, he  would  deserve  more  than  the  most  extrava- 

14 


314  BACON. 

gant  panegyrics  he  has  received.  Aristotle  is  famous  as 
a  critic  for  generalizing  the  rules  of  epic  and  dramatic 
poetry  from  the  practice  of  Homer  and  the  Greek  trage- 
dians ;  what  fame  would  not  be  his,  if  his  rules  had 
preceded  Homer  and  the  Greek  dramatists  ?  Yet  Ma- 
caulay,  and  many  others  who  have  criticised  Bacon, 
while  pretending  to  depreciate  all  rules  as  useless,  still 
say  that  Bacon's  analysis  of  the  inductive  method  is  a 
true  and  good  analysis,  and  that  the  method  has  since 
his  time  been  instinctively  followed  by  all  successful  in- 
vestigators of  nature,  —  as  if  Bacon  had  not  constructed 
his  inductive  rules  from  a  deep-rooted  distrust  of  men's 
inductive  instincts.  But  it  is  plain  to  everybody  who 
has  read  Comte  and  Mill  and  AVhewell,  that  the  method 
of  discovery  is  still  a  debatable  question  ;  and,  with  all 
our  immense  superiority  to  the  age  of  Bacon  in  the  pos- 
session of  facts  on  which  to  build  a  method,  we  have 
settled  as  yet  on  no  philosophy  of  the  objects  or  the 
processes  of  science.  There  are  many  disputed  meth- 
ods, but  no  accepted  method  ;  the  anarchy  of  opinions 
here  corresponds  to  the  anarchy  in  metaphysics  ;  and 
the  establishment  of  a  philosophy  of  discovery  and  in- 
vention must  wait  the  establishment  of  a  philosophy 
of  the  mmd  which   discovers  and  invents. 

But  we  know  enough  to  give  the  reasons  of  Bacon's 
failure.    The  defects  of  his  method  can  be  demonstrated 


BACON.  315 

from  the  separate  judgments  of  his  warmest  eulogists. 
First,  Bacon  was  no  mathematician,  and  Playfair  admits 
that  "  in  all  physical  inquiries  where  mathematical  rea- 
soning has  been  employed,  after  a  few  principles  have 
been  established  by  experience,  a  vast  multitude  of 
truths,  equally  certain  with  the  principles  themselves, 
have  been  deduced  from  them  by  the  mere  application 
of  geometry  and  algebra."  Bacon's  prevision,  then,  did 
not  extend  to  the  foresight  of  the  great  part  that  mathe- 
matical science  was  to  perform  in  the  interpretation  of  na- 
ture. Second,  Sir  John  Herschel,  who  follows  Playfair 
in  making  Bacon  the  father  of  experimental  philosophy, 
still  gives  a  deadly  blow  to  Bacon's  celebrated  tables 
of  prerogative  instances,  considered  as  real  aids  to  the 
understanding,  when  he  admits  that  the  same  sagacity 
which  enables  an  inquirer  to  assign  an  instance  or  ob- 
servation to  its  proper  class,  enables  him,  without  that 
process,  to  recognize  its  proper  value.  Third,  Sir  James 
Mackintosh,  who  claims  for  Bacon,  that,  if  he  did  not 
himself  make  discoveries,  he  taught  mankind  the  method 
by  which  discoveries  are  made,  and  who  asserts  that  the 
physical  sciences  owe  all  that  they  are  or  ever  will  be  to 
Bacon's  method  and  spirit,  refers  to  the  104th  aphorism 
of  the  first  book  of  the  Novum  Organum,  as  containing 
the  condensed  essence  of  his  philosophy.  This  aphorism 
afhi'ms  that  the  path  to  the  most  general  truths  is  a 


316  BACON. 

series  of  ascending  inductive  steps  ;  that  the  lowest  gen- 
eralizations must  first  be  established,  then  the  middle 
principles,  then  the  highest.  It  is  curious  that  Mackin- 
tosh should  praise  a  philosopher  of  facts  for  announcing 
a  theory  which  facts  have  disproved.  .The  merest  glance 
at  the  history  of  the  sciences  shows  that  the  opposite 
principle  is  rather  the  true  one ;  that  the  most  general 
principles  have  been  first  reached.  Mill  can  excuse 
Bacon  for  this  blunder  only  by  saying  that  he  could  not 
have  fallen  into  it  if  there  had  existed  in  his  time  a 
single  deductive  science,  such  as  mechanics,  astronomy, 
optics,  acoustics,  etc.,  now  are.  Of  course  he  could  not; 
but  the  fact  remains  that  he  did  not  foresee  the  course, 
or  prescribe  the  true  method,  of  science,  and  that  he  did 
not  even  appreciate  the  way  in  which  his  contempo- 
raries, Kepler  and  Galileo,  wei'e  building  up  sciences  by 
processes  different  from  his  own.  It  is  amazing,  how- 
ever, that  Mackintosh  —  with  his  knowledge  of  the 
discovery  of  the  law  of  gravitation,  the  most  univer- 
sal of  all  natural  laws,  as  an  obvious  contradiction  of 
the  theory  —  should  have  adopted  Bacon's  error. 

Fourth,  Bacon's  method  of  exclusion,  the  one  element 
of  his  system  which  gave  it  originality,  proceeds,  as 
John  Stuart  Mill  has  pointed  out,  on  the  assumption 
that  a  phenomenon  can  have  but  one  cause;  and  is  there- 
fore not  applicable  to  coexistences,  as  to  successions,  of 
phenomena.  - 


BACON.  317 

Fifth,  Bacon's  method,  though  it  proceeds  on  a  con- 
ception of  nature  which  is  an  hypothesis  exploded,  and 
though  it  is  itself  an  hypothesis  which  has  proved 
sterile,  still  does  not  admit  of  hypotheses  as  guides  to 
investigation.  The  last  and  ablest  editor  of  his  philo- 
sophical works,  Mr.  Ellis,  concedes  the  practical  in- 
utility of  his  method  on  this  ground,  that  the  process  by 
which  scientific  truths  have  been  established  "  involves 
an  element  to  which  nothing  corresponds  in  Bacon's 
tables  of  comparison  and  exclusion  ;  namely,  the  appli- 
cation to  the  facts  of  observation  of  a  principle  of 
arrangement,  an  idea,  existing  in  the  mind  of  the  dis- 
coverer antecedently  to  the  act  of  induction." 

Indeed,  Bacon's  method  was  disproved  by  his  own 
contemporaries.  Kepler  tried  twenty  guesses  on  the 
orbit  of  Mars,  and  the  last  fitted  the  facts,  Galileo  de- 
duced important  principles  from  assumptions,  and  then 
brought  them  to  the  test  of  experiment.  Gilbert's  hy- 
pothesis, that  "  the  earth  is  a  great  natural  magnet  with 
two  poles,"  is  now  more  than  an  hypothesis.  The 
Novum  Organum  contains  a  fling  at  the  argument  from 
final  causes  ;  and,  the  very  year  it  was  published,  Har- 
vey, the  friend  and  physician  of  Bacon,  by  reasoning  on 
the  final  cause  of  the  valves  in  the  veins,  discovered  the 
circulation  of  the  blood.  All  these  men  had  the  scien- 
tific  instinct    and   scientific  genius   that  Bacon  lacked. 


318  BACON. 

They  made  no  antithesis  between  the  anticipation  of  na- 
ture and  the  interpretation  of  nature,  but  they  antici- 
pated in  order  to  interpret.  It  is  not  the  disuse  of  hy- 
potheses, but  the  testing  of  hypotheses  by  facts,  and  the 
willingness  to  give  them  up  when  experience  decides 
against  them,  which  characterizes  the  scientific  mind. 

Sixth,  Bacon,  though  he  aimed  to  institute  a  philoso- 
phy of  observation,  and  gave  rules  for  observing,  v.-as 
not  himself  a  sharp  and  accurate  observer  of  nature,  — 
did  not  possess,  as  has  often  been  remarked,  acuteness 
in  proportion  to  his  comprehensiveness.  His  Natural 
History,  his  History  of  Life  and  Death,  of  Density  and 
Rarity,  and  the  like,  all  prove  a  mental  defect  disquali- 
fying him  for  the  business.  His  eye  roved  when  it 
should  have  been  patiently  fixed.  He  caught  at  resem- 
blances by  the  instinct  of  his  wide-ranging  intellect, 
and  this  peculiarity,  constantly  indulged,  impaired  his 
power  of  distinguishing  dilFerences.  He  spread  his 
mind  over  a  space  so  large  that  its  full  strength  was 
not  concentrated  on  anything.  He  could  not  check  the 
discursive  action  of  his  intellect  and  hold  it  down  to 
the  sharp,  penetrating,  dissecting  analysis  of  single  ap- 
pearances ;  and  his  brain  was  teeming  with  too  many 
schemes  to  allow  of  that  mental  fanaticism,  that  fury  of 
mind,  which  impelled  Kepler  to  his  repeated  assaults  on 
the  tough  problem  of  the  planetary  orbits.     The  same 


.       BACON.  319 

bewildering  multiplicity  of  objects  which  prevented 
him  from  throwing  Lis  full  force  into  affairs  and  taking 
a  decided  stand  as  a  statesman,  operated  likewise  to  dis- 
sipate his  energies  as  an  explorer  of  nature.  The 
analogies,  relations,  likenesses  of  things  occupied  his 
attention,  to  the  exclusion  of  a  searching  examination  of 
the  things  themselves.  As  a  courtier,  lawyer,  jurist,  poli- 
tician, statesman,  man  of  science,  student  of  universal 
knowledge,  he  has  been  practically  excelled  in  each  de- 
partment by  special  men,  because  his  intellect  was  one 
which  refused  to  be  arrested  and  fixed. 

And,  in  conclusion,  the  essential  defect  of  the  Baco- 
nian method  consists  in  its  being  an  invention  of  genius 
to  dispense  with  the  necessity  of  genius.  It  was,  as  Mr. 
Ellis  has  well  remarked,  "  a  mechanical  mode  of  pro- 
cedure, pretending  to  lead  to  absolute  certainty  of 
result."  It  levelled  capacities,  because  the  virtue  was  in 
the  instrument  used,  and  not  in  the  person  using  it. 
Bacon  illustrates  the  importance  of  his  method  by  say- 
ing that  a  man  of  ordinary  ability  with  a  pair  of  com- 
passes can  describe  a  better  circle  than  a  man  of  the 
greatest  genius  without  such  help ;  that  the  lame,  in  the 
path,  outstrip  the  swift  who  wander  from  it ;  indeed,  the 
very  skill  and  swiftness  of  him  who  runs  not  in  the 
right  direction  only  increases  his  aberration.  With  his 
view  of  philosophy,  —  as  the  investigation  of  the  forms  of 


320  BACON. 

a  liraited  number  of  simple  natures,  —  he  thought  that, 
with  "  the  purse  of  a  prince  and  the  assistance  of  a  peo- 
ple," a  sufficiently  copious  natural  history  might  be 
formed,  within  a  comparatively  short  period,  to  furnish 
the  materials  for  the  working  of  his  method ;  and  then 
the  grand  instauration  of  the  sciences  would  be  rapidly 
completed.  In  this  scheme  there  could,  of  course,  be 
only  one  great  name,  —  the  name  of  Bacon.  Those 
who  collected  the  materials,  those  who  applied  the 
method,  would  be  only  his  clerks.  His  office  was  that 
of  Secretary  of  State  for  the  interpretation  of  nature ; 
Lord  Chancellor  of  the  laws  of  existence,  and  Legislator 
of  science  ;  Lord  Treasurer  of  the  riches  of  the  uni- 
verse ;  the  Intellectual  Potentate  equally  of  science  and 
art,  with  no  aristocracy  round  his  throne,  but  with  a 
bureaucracy  in  its  stead,  taken  from  the  middle  class  of 
intellect  and  character.  There  was  no  place  for  Har- 
vey and  Newton  and  Halley  and  Dalton  and  La  Place 
and  Cuvier  and  Agassiz ;  for  genius  was  unnecessary: 
the  new  logic,  the  Novum  Organum,  —  Bacon  him- 
self, mentally  alive  in  the  brains  which  applied  his 
method,  —  was  all  in  all.  Splendid  discoveries  would  be 
made,  those  discoveries  would  be  beneficently  applied,  but 
they  would  be  made  by  clerks  and  applied  by  clerks.  All 
these  discoveries  were  latent  in  the  Baconian  method,  and 
over  all  the  completed  intellectual  globe  of  science,  as  in 


BACON.  321 

the  commencement  of  the  Novum  Organum,  would  be 
written,  "  Francis  of  Verulam  thought  thus  !  "  And  if 
Bacon's  method  had  been  really  fallowed  by  succeeding 
men  of  science,  this  magnificent  autocracy  of  under- 
standing and  imagination  would  have  been  justified; 
and  round  the  necks  of  each  of  them  would  be  a  collar, 
on  which  would  be  written,  "  This  person  is  so  and  so, 
'  born  tlirall '  of  Francis  of  Yerulam."  Tliat  this  serene 
feeling  of  spiritual  superiority,  and  consciousness  of 
being  the  founder  of  a  new  empire  in  the  world  of 
mind,  was  in  Bacon,  we  know  by  the  general  tone  of 
his  writings,  and  the  politic  contempt  with  which  he 
speaks  of  the  old  autocrats,  Aristotle  and  Plato ;  and 
Harvey,  Avho  knew  him  well,  probably  intended  to  hit 
this  imperial  loftiness,  when  he  described  him  as  "•  writ- 
ing philosophy  like  a  Lord  Chancellor."  "  The  guillo- 
tine governs  !  "  said  Barrere,  gayly,  when  some  friend 
compassionated  his  perplexities  as  a  practical  statesman 
during  the  Reign  of  Terror.  '*  The  Method  governs  ! " 
would  have  been  the  reply  of  a  Baconian  underling, 
had  the  difficulties  of  his  attempts  to  penetrate  the  in- 
most mysteries  of  nature  been  suggested  to  him. 

Thus,  by  the  use  of  Bacon's  own  method  of  exclusion 
we  exclude  him  from  the  position  due  of  right  to  Gali- 
leo and  Kepler,     In  the  inquiry   respecting  the   father 
of  the  inductive  sciences,  he  is  not  "  the  nature  sought." 
14*  u 


322  BACON. 

"What,  then,  is  the  cause  of  his  fame  among  the  scien- 
tific men  of  England  and  France  ?  They  certainly 
have  not  spent  their  time  in  investigating  the  forms 
of  simple  natures ;  they  certainly  have  not  used  his 
method  :  why  have  they  used  his  name  ? 

In  answer  to  this  question,  it  may  be  said  that  Bacon, 
participating  in  the  intellectual  movement  of  the  higher 
minds  of  his  age,  recognized  the  paramount  importance 
of  observation  and  experiment  in  the  investigation  of  na- 
ture ;  and  it  has  since  been  found  convenient  to  adopt, 
as  the  father  and  founder  of  the  physical  sciences,  one 
whose  name  lends  to  them  so  much  literary  prestige,  and 
Avho  was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  broadest,  richest,  and 
most  imperial  of  human  intellects,  if  he  was  not  one  of 
the  most  scientific.  Then  he  is  the  most  eloquent  of  all 
discoursers  on  the  philosophy  of  science,  and  the  general 
greatness  of  his  mind  is  evident  even  in  the  demonstra- 
ble errors  of  his  system.  No  other  writer  on  the  sub- 
ject is  a  classic,  and  Bacon  is  thus  a  link  connecting 
men  of  science  with  men  of  letters  and  men  of  the 
world,  Whewell,  Comte,  Mill,  Herschel  —  with  more 
abundant  material,  with  the  advantage  of  generalizing 
the  philosophy  of  the  sciences  from  their  history  —  are 
instinctively  felt  by  every  reader  to  be  smaller  men 
than  Bacon.  As  thinkers,  they  appear  thin  and  un- 
fruitful  when   we   consider    his   fulness   of   suggestive 


BACON.  323 

thought ;  as  writers,  they  have  no  pretension  to  the 
massiveness,  splendor,  condensation,  and  regal  dignity 
of  his  rhetoric.  The  Advancement  of  Learning,  and 
the  first  book  of  the  Novum  Organura,  are  full  of 
quotable  sentences,  in  which  solid  wisdom  is  clothed  in 
the  aptest,  most  vivid,  most  imaginative,  and  most 
executive  expression.  If  a  man  of  science  at  the  pres- 
ent day  wishes  for  a  compact  statement  in  which  to  em- 
body his  scorn  of  bigotry,  of  dogmatism,  of  intellectual 
conceit,  of  any  of  the  idols  of  the  human  understanding 
which  obstruct  its  perception  of  natural  truth,  it  is  to 
Bacon  that  he  goes  for  an  aphorism. 

And  it  is  doubtless  true  that  the  spirit  which  animates 
Bacon's  philosophical  works  is  a  spirit  which  inspires 
effort  and  infuses  cheer.  It  is  impossible  to  say  how  far 
this  spirit  has  animated  inventors  and  discoverers.  But 
we  know,  from  the  enthusiastic  admiration  expressed  for 
him  by  men  of  science  who  could  not  have  been  blind 
to  the  impotence  of  his  method,  that  all  minds  his  spirit 
touched  it  must  have  influenced.  One  principle  stands 
plainly  out  in  his  writings,  —  that  the  intellect  of  man, 
purified  from  its  idols,  is  competent  for  the  conquest 
of  nature  ;  and  to  this  glorious  task  he,  above  all  other 
men,  gave  an  epical  dignity  and  loftiness.  His  superb 
rhetoric  is  the  poetry  of  physical  science.  The  hum- 
blest laborer  in  that  field  feels,  in  reading  Bacon,  that  he 


324  BACON. 

himself  is  one  of  a  band  of  heroes,  wielding  weapons 
mightier  than  those  of  Achilles  and  Agamemnon,  engaged 
in  a  siege  nobler  than  that  of  Troy;  for,  in  so  far  as  he  is 
honest  and  capable,  he  is  "  Man,  the  minister  and  inter- 
preter of  Nature,"  concerned,  "  not  in  the  amplification 
of  the  power  of  one  man  over  his  country,  nor  in  the 
amplification  of  the  power  of  that  country  over  other 
countries,  but  in  the  amplification  of  the  power  and 
kingdom  of  mankind  over  the  universe."  And,  while 
Bacon  has  thus  given  an  ideal  elevation  to  the  pursuit 
of  science,  he  has  at  the  same  time  pointed  out  most 
distinctly  those  diseases  of  the  mind  which  check  or 
mij«lead  it  in  the  task  of  interpretation.  As  a  student 
of  nature,  his  fame  is  greater  tlian  his  deserts  ;  as  a  stu- 
dent of  iiuman  nature,  he  is  hardly  yet  appreciated ; 
and  it  is  to  the  greater  part  of  the  first  book  of  the  No- 
vum Organum  —  where  he  deals  in  general  reflections  on 
those  mental  habits  and  dispositions  which  interfere  with 
pure  intellectual  conscientiousness,  and  where  his  benefi- 
cent spirit  and  rich  imagination  lend  sweetness  and  beau- 
ty to  the  homeliest  practical  wisdom  —  that  the  reader 
impatiently  returns,  after  being  wearied  with  the  details 
of  his  method  given  in  the  second  book.  His  method 
was  antiquated  in  his  own  lifetime ;  but  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  centuries  hence  his  analysis  of  the  idols  of  the 
human  understanding  will  be  as  fresh  as  human  vanity 
and  pride. 


BACON.  325 

It  was  not,  then,  in  the  knowledge  of  nature,  but  in 
the  knowledge  of  human  nature,  that  Bacon  pre-emi- 
nently excelled.  By  this  it  is  not  meant  that  he  was  a 
metaphysician  iu  the  usual  sense  of  the  terra,  —  though 
his  works  contain  as  valuable  hints  to  metaphysicians  as 
to  naturalists,  —  for  these  hints  are  on  matters  at  one 
remove  from  the  central  problems  of  metaphysics.  In- 
deed, for  all  those  questions  which  relate  to  the  nature 
of  the  mind  and  the  mode  by  which  it  obtains  its  ideas, 
for  all  questions  which  are  addressed  to  our  speculative 
reason  alone,  he  seems  to  have  felt  an  aversion  almost 
irrational.  They  appeared  to  him  to  minister  to  the 
delight  and  vain-glory  of  the  thinker  without  yielding 
any  fruit  of  wisdom  which  could  be  applied  to  human 
affairs.  "Pragmatical  man,"  he  says,  "should  not  go 
away  with  an  opinion  that  learning  is  like  a  lark,  that 
can  mount,  and  sing,  and  please  herself,  and  nothing 
else  ;  but  may  know  ihat  she  holdeth  as  well  of  the 
hawk,  that  can  soar  aloft,  and  can  also  descend  and 
strike  upon  the  prey."  Not,  then,  the  abstract  qualities 
and  powers  of  the  human  mind,  considered  as  special 
objects  of  investigation  independent  of  individuals,  but 
the  combination  of  these  into  concrete  character,  in- 
terested Bacon.  He  regarded  the  machinery  in  motion  ; 
the  human  being  as  he  thinks,  feels,  and  lives ;  men  in 
their  relations  with  men :  and  the  phenomena  presented 


326  BACON. 

in  history  and  life  he  aimed  to  investigate  as  he  would 
investigate  the  phenomena  of  the  natural  world.  This 
practical  science  of  human  nature,  in  which  the  dis- 
covery of  general  laws  seems  hopeless  to  every  mind 
not  ample  enough  to  escape  being  overwhelmed  by  the 
confusion,  complication,  and  immense  variety  of  the  de- 
tails,—  and  which  it  will  probably  take  ages  to  complete, 
—  this  science  Bacon  palpably  advanced.  His  emi- 
nence here  is  evident  from  his  undisputed  superior- 
ity to  other  prominent  thinkers  in  the  same  depart- 
ment. Ilallam  justly  remarks,  that,  "  if  we  compare 
what  may  be  found  in  the  sixth,  seventh,  and  eighth 
books  De  Augraentis ;  in  the  Essays,  the  History  of 
Henry  VIL,  and  the  various  short  treatises  contained  in 
his"  [Bacon's]  "works  on  moral  and  political  wisdom, 
and  on  human  nature  (from  experience  of  which  all  such 
wisdom  is  drawn)  ;  —  if  we  compare  these  Avorks  of  Ba- 
con with  the  rhetoric,  ethics,  and  politics  of  Aristotle,  or 
with  the  histories  most  celebrated  for  their  deep  insight 
into  civil  society  and  human  character,  —  with  Thucydi- 
des,  Tacitus,  Philippe  de  Commines,  Machiavel,  Davila, 
Hume, —  we  shall,  I  think,  find  that  one  man  may  be 
compared  with  all  these  together." 

The  most  valuable  peculiarity  of  this  wisdom  is,  that 
it  not  merely  points  out  what  should  be  done,  but  it 
points  out  how  it  can  be  done.     This  is  especially  true 


BACON.  327 

of  all  bis  directions  for  the  culture  of  the  individual 
mind ;  the  mode  by  which  the  passions  may  be  disci- 
plined, and  the  intellect  enriched,  enlarged,  and  strength- 
ened. So'  with  the  relations  of  the  individual  to  his 
household,  to  society,  to  government:  he  indicates  the 
method  by  which  these  relations  may  be  known  and  the 
duties  they  impjy  performed.  In  his  larger  specula- 
tions, regarding  the  philosophy  of  law,  the  principles  of 
universal  justice,  and  the  organic  character  of  national 
institutions,  he  anticipates,  by  the  sweep  of  his  intellect, 
the  ideas  of  the  jurists  and  historians  of  the  present 
century.  Volumes  have  been  written  which  are  merely 
expansions  of  this  statement  of  Bacon,  that  "  there  are  in 
nature  certain  fountains  of  justice,  whence  all  civil  laws 
are  derived  but  as  streams  ;  and  like  as  waters  do  take 
tinctures  and  tastes  from  the  soils  through  which  they 
run,  so  do  civil  laws  vary  according  to  the  regions  and 
governments  where  they  are  planted,  though  they  pro- 
ceed from  the  same  fountain."  The  Advancement  of 
Learning,  afterwards  translated  and  expanded  into  the 
Latin  treatise  De  Augmentis,  is  an  inexhaustible  store- 
house of  such  thoughts,  —  thoughts  which  have  consti- 
tuted the  capital  of  later  thinkers,  but  which  never 
appear  to  so  much  advantage  as  in  the  compact  imagi- 
native form  in  which  they  were  originally  expressed. 
It  is  important,  however,  that,  in  admitting  to  the  full 


328  BACON. 

Bacon's  just  claims  as  a  philosopher  of  human  nature, 
we  should  avoid  the  mistake  of  supposing  him  to  have 
possessed  acuteness  in  the  same  degree  in  which  he 
possessed  comprehensiveness.  Mackintosh  says  that  he 
is  "  probably  a  single  instance  of  a  mind  which  in 
philosophizing  always  reaches  the  point  of  elevation 
whence  the  whole  prospect  is  commanded,  without  ever 
rising  to  that  distance  which  prevents  a  distinct  percep- 
tion of  every  part  of  it."  This  judgment  is  accurate  as 
far  as  it  regards  parts  as  elements  of  a  general  view; 
but  in  the  special  view  of  single  parts  Bacon  has  been 
repeatedly  excelled  by  men  whom  it  would  be  absurd 
to  compare  to  him  in  general  wisdom.  His  mind  was 
contracted  to  details  by  effort ;  it  dilated  by  instinct. 
It  was  telescopic  rather  than  microscopic  :  its  observa- 
tion of  men  was  extensive  rather  than  minute.  "  "Were 
it  not  better,"  he  asks,  "  for  a  man  in  a  fair  room  to  set 
up  one  great  light,  or  branching  candlestick  of  lights, 
than  to  go  about  with  a  small  watch-candle  into  every 
corner  ?  "  Certainly  ;  but  the  small  watch-candle,  in 
some  investigations,  is  better  than  the  great  central 
lamp  ;  and  his  genius  accordingly  does  not  include  the 
special  genius  of  such  observers  as  La  Bruyere,  Roche- 
foucauld, Saint-Simon,  Balzac,  and  Shaftesbury,  —  the 
detective  police  of  society,  politics,  and  letters,  —  men 
whose    intellects  were    contracted    to    a    sharp,   sure, 


BACON.  329 

cat-like  peering  into  the  darkest  crevices  of  indlyiclual 
natures,  whose  eyes  dissected  what  they  looked  upon, 
and  for  whom  the  slightest  circumstance  Avas  a  key 
that  opened  the  whole  character  to  their  glance.  For 
examide  :  Saint-Simon  sees  a  lady  whose  seemingly 
ingenuous  diffidence  makes  her  charming  to  everybody. 
He  peers  into  her  soul,  and  declares,  as  the  result  of 
his  vision,  that  "  modesty  is  one  of  her  arts."  Again, 
after  the  death  of  the  son  of  Louis  XIV.,  the  court  was 
of  course  overwhelmed  with  decorous  grief;  the  new 
dauphin  and  dauphiness  were  especially  inconsolable  for 
the  loss,  and,  to  all  witnesses  but  one,  were  weeping 
copiously.  Saint-Simon  simply  says,  "  Their  eyes  were 
wonderfully  dry,  but  well  managed."  Bacon  might  have 
inferred  hypocrisy ;  but  he  would  not  have  observed 
the  lack  of  moisture  in  the  eyes  amid  all  the  convulsive 
sobbing  and  the  agonized  dips  and  waves  of  the  handker- 
chiefs. Take  another  instance.  The  Duke  of  Orleans 
amazed  the  court  by  the  diabolical  recklessness  of  his 
conduct.  Saint-Simon  alone  saw  that  ordinary  vices  had 
no  pungency  for  the  Duke;  that  he  must  spice  licentious- 
ness with  atheism,  blasphemy,  and  incest,  in  order  to  de- 
rive any  pleasure  from  it ;  and  solves  the  problem  by  say- 
ing that  he  was  "  born  hlase"  —  that  he  took  up  vice  at 
the  point  at  which  his  ancestors  had  left  it,  and  had 
no  choice  but  to  carry  it  to  new  heights  of  impudence 


330  BACON; 

or  to  reject  it  altogether.  Agaiu,  —  to  take  an  example 
from  a  practical  politician :  Shaftesbury,  who  played 
the  game  of  faction  with  such  exquisite  subtlety  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  II.,  detected  the  fact  of  the  secret  mar- 
riage between  the  king's  brother  and  Anne  Hyde  by 
noticing  at  dinner  that  her  mother,  Lady  Clarendon, 
could  not  avoid  expressing  a  faint  deference  in  her  man- 
ner when  she  helped  her  daughter  to  the  meat ;  and  on 

.  this  slight  indication  he  acted  as  confidently  as  if  he  had 
learned  the  fact  by  being  present  at  the  wedding. 

Now  neither  in  his  life  nor  in  his  writings  does  Bacon 
indicate  that  he  had  studied  individuals  with  this  keen 
attentiveness.  His  knowledge  of  human  nature  was  the 
result  of  the  tranquil  deposit,  year  after  year,  into  his 
receptive  and  capacious  intellect,  of  the  facts  of  history 
and  of  his  own  wide  experience  of  various  kinds  of  life. 
These  he  pondered,  classified,  reduced  to  principles,  and 
em-bodied  in  sentences  which  have  ever  since  been 
quotable  texts  for  jurists;  moralists,  historians,  and 
statesmen  ;  and  all  the  while  his  own  servants  were  de- 
ceiving and  plundering  him,  and  his  subordinates  enrich- 
ing themselves  with  bribes  taken  in  his  name.  The 
"  small  watch-candle  "  would  have  been  valuable  to  him 
here. 

•^.,  The  work  by  which  his  wisdom  has  reached  the  popu- 
lar mind  is   his    collection  of    Essays.     As   originally 


BACON.  331 

published  in  1597,  it  contained  only  ten  ;  in  the  last  edi- 
tion published  in  his  lifetime,  the  number  was  increased  to 
fifty-seven.  As  they  were  the  sifted  result  of  much  obser- 
vation and  meditation  on  public  and  private  life,  he  truly 
could  say  of  their  matter,  that  "  it  could  not  be  found  in 
books."  Their  originality  can  hardly  be  appreciated  at 
present,  for  most  of  their  thoughts  have  been  incorpor- 
ated with  the  minds  which  have  fed  on  them,  and  have 
been  continually  reproduced  in  other  volumes.  Yet 
it  is  probable  that  these  short  treatises  are  rarely 
thoroughly  mastered,  even  by  the  most  careful  reader. 
Dugald  Stewart  testifies  that  after  reading  them  for  the 
twentieth  time  he  obi^erved  something  which  had  es- 
caped his  attention  on  the  nineteenth.  They  combine 
the  greatest  brevity  with  the  greatest  beauty  of  expres- 
sion. Tiie  tiioughts  follow  each  other  with  such  rapid 
ease  ;  each  thought  is  so  truly  an  addition,  and  not  an 
expansion  of  the  preceding ;  the  point  of  view  is  so  con- 
tinually changed,  in  order  that  in  one  little  essay  the 
subject  may  be  considered  on  all  its  sides  and  in  all  its 
bearings ;  and  each  sentence  is  so  capable  of  being  de- 
veloped into  an  essay,  —  that  the  work  requires  long 
pauses  of  reflection,  and  frequent  re-perusal,  to  be  esti-  ^J 
mated  at  its  full  ■worth.  It  not  merely  enriches  the 
mind  ;  it  enlarges  it,  and  teaches  it  comprehensive  habits 
of  reflection.     The  disease  of  mental  narrowness  and 


332  BACON. 

fanaticism,  it  insensibly  cures,  by  showing  that  every 
subject  can  be  completely  apprehended  only  by  viewing 
it  from  various  points ;  and  a  reader  of  Bacon  instinc- 
tively meets  the  fussy  or  furious  declaimer  with  the 
objection,  "  But,  sir,  there  is  another  side  to  this  mat- 
ter." 

It  was  one  of  Bacon's  mistakes  to  believe  that  he 
would  outlive  the  English  language.  Those  of  his 
works,  therefore,  which  were  not  written  in  Latin  he 
was  eager  to  have  translated  into  that  tongue.  The 
'•  Essays,"  coming  home  as  they  did  to  "  men's  business 
and  bosoms,"  he  was  persuaded  would  "  last  as  long  as 
books  should  last  "  ;  and  as  he  thought  —  to  use  his  own 
words  —  "  that  these  modern  languages  would  at  some 
time  or  other  play  the  bankruf^t  with  books,"  he  em- 
ployed Ben  Jonson  and  others  to  translate  the  Essays 
into  Latin.  A  Dr.  "VVillmott  published,  in  1720,  a  trans- 
lation of  this  Latin  edition  into  what  he  called  reformed 
and  fashionable  English.  "We  will  give  a  specimen. 
Bacon,  in  his  Essay  on  Adversity,  says :  "  Prosperity 
is  the  blessing  of  the  Old  Testament,  adversity  is  the 
blessing  of  the  New Yet  even  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, if  you  listen  to  David's  harp,  you  shall  hear  as 
many  hearse-like  airs  as  carols."  Dr.  Willmott  Eng- 
lishes the  Latin  in  this  wise  :  ".Prosperity  belongs  to 
the  blessings  of  the  Old  Testament,  adversity  to  the 


BACON.  333 

beatitudes  of  the  New.  .  .  .  .  Yet  even  in  the  Old 
Testament,  if  you  listen  to  David's  harp,  you  '11  find 
more  lamentable  airs  than  triumphant  ones."  This  is 
translation  with  a  vengeance  ! 

Next  to  the  Essays  and  the  Advancement  of  Learn- 
ing, the  most  attractive  of  Bacon's  works  is  his  Wisdom 
of  the  Ancients.  Here  his  reason  and  imagination, 
intermingling  or  interchanging  their  processes,  work 
conjointly,  and  produce  a  magnificent  series  of  poems, 
while  remorselessly  analyzing  imaginations  into  ideas. 
He  supposes  that,  anterior  to  the  Greeks,  there  were 
thinkers  as  wise  as  Bacon ;  that  the  heathen  fables  are 
poetical  embodiments  of  secrets  and  mysteries  of  policy, 
philosophy,  and  religion  ;  truths  folded  up  in  mythologi- 
cal personifications  ;  "  sacred  relics,"  indeed,  or  "  ab- 
stracted, rarefied  airs  of  better  times,  which  by  tradi- 
tion from  more  ancient  nations  fell  into  the  trumpets 
and  flutes  of  the  Grecians."  He,  of  course,  finds  in 
these  fables  what  he  brings  to  them,  the  inductive  phi- 
losophy and  all.  The  book  is  a  marvel  of  ingenuity, 
and  exhibits  the  astounding  analogical  power  of  his 
mind,  both  as  respects  analogies  of  reason  and  analogies 
of  fancy.  Had  Bacon  lived  in  the  age  of  Plato  and 
Aristotle,  and  Avritten  this  work,  he  would  have  fairly 
triumphed  over  those  philosophers ;  for  he  would  have 
reconciled    ancient    philosophy   with   ancient   religion, 


334  BACON. 

and   made  faith  in   Jupiter   and   Pan   consistent   with 
reason. 

But  the  work  in  which  Bacon  is  most  pleasingly  ex- 
hibited is  his  philosophical  romance,  The  New  Atlantis. 
This  happy  island  is  a  Baconian  Utopia,  a  philosopher's 
paradise,  where  the  Novum  Organum  is,  in  imagina- 
tion, realized,  and  utility  is  carried  to  hs  loftiest  idealiza- 
tion. In  this  country  the  king  is  good,  and  the  people 
are  good,  because  everything,  even  commerce,  is  sub- 
ordinated to  knowledge.  '"Truth"  here  "prints  good- 
ness." All  sensual  and  malignant  passions,  all  the  ugly 
deformities  of  actu;d  life,  are  sedately  expelled  from  this 
glorious  dream  of  a  kingdom  where  men  live  in  har- 
mony with  each  other  and  with  nature,  and  where  ob- 
servers, discoverers,  and  inventors  are  invested  with  an 
external  pomp  and  dignity  and  high  place  corresponding 
to  their  intellectual  elevation.  Here  is  a  college  worthy 
of  the  name,  Solomon's  House,  "  the  end  of  whose  foun- 
dation is  the  knowledge  of  causes  and  the  secret  motions 
of  thmgs,  and  the  enlarging  the  bounds  of  human  em- 
pn"e  to  the  effecting  of  all  things  possible " ;  and  in 
Solomon's  House  Bacon's  ideas  are  carried  out,  and  man 
is  in  the  process  of  "  being  restored  to  the  sovereignty 
of  nature.'  In  this  fiction,  too,  the  peculiar  benevolence 
of  Bacon's  spirit  is  displayed  ;  and  perhaps  the  finest 
sentence  in  his  writings,  certainly   the  one  which  best 


BACON.  335 

indicates  the  essential  feeling  of  his  soul  as  he  regarded 
human  misery  and  ignorance,  occurs  in  his  descrip- 
tion of  one  of  the  fathers  of  Solomon's  House.  "  His 
countenance,"  he  says,  "  was  as  the  countenance  of  one 
who  pities  men." 

But,  it  may  still  be  asked,  how  was  it  that  a  man  of 
such  large  wisdom,  with  a  soul  of  such  pervasive  be- 
neficence, was  so  comparatively  weak  and  pliant  in  his 
life  ?  This  question  touches  his  intellect  no  less  than 
his  character  ;  and  it  must  be  said  that,  both  in  the  ac- 
tion of  his  mind  and  tlie  actions  of  his  life,  there  is  ob- 
servable a  lack  of  emotional  as  well  as  of  moral  intensity. 
He  is  never  impassioned,  never  borne  away  by  an  over- 
mastering feeling  or  purpose.  There  is  no  rush  of  ideas 
and  passions  in  his  writings,  no  direct  contact  and  close 
hug  of  thought  and  thing.  Serenity,  not  speed,  is  his 
characteristic.  Majestic  as  is  the  movement  of  his  in- 
tellect, and  far-reaching  its  glance,  it  still  includes,  ad- 
justs, y^e/s  into  the  objects  it  contemplates,  rather  than 
darls  at  them  like  Shakespeare's  or  pierces  them  like 
Chaucer's.  And  this  intelhgence,  so  wise  and  so  worldly- 
wise,  so  broad,  bright,  confident,  and  calm,  with  the 
moral  element  pervading  it  as  an  element  of  insight 
rather  than  as  a  motive  of  action,  —  this  was  the  instru- 
ment on  which  he  equally  relied  to  advance  learning 
and  to  advance  Bacon.     As  a  practical  politician,  he  felt 


336  BACON. 

assured  of  his  power  to  comprehend  as  a  whole,  and 
nicely  to  discern  the  separate  parts  of,  the  most  compli- 
cated matter  which  pressed  for  judgment  and  for  voli- 
tion. Exercising  insight  and  foresight  on  a  multitude 
of  facts  and  contingencies  all  present  to  his  mind  at 
once,  he  aimed  to  evoke  order  from  confusion,  to  read 
events  in  their  principles,  to  seize  the  sahent  point  which 
properly  determines  the  judgment,  and  then  to  act  de- 
cisively for  his  purpose,  safely  for  his  reputation  and 
fortune.  Marvellous  as  this  process  of  intelligence  is,  it 
is  liable  both  to  corrupt  and  mislead  unless  the  moral 
sentiment  be  strong  and  controlling.  The  man  trans- 
forms himself  into  a  sort  of  earthly  Providence,  and  by 
intelligence  believes  himself  emancipated  from  strict  in- 
tegrity. But  the  intellectual  eye,  even  when  capable,  like 
Bacon's,  of  being  dilated  at  will,  is  no  substitute  for  con- 
science, and  no  device  has  ever  been  invented  which 
would  do  away  with  the  usefulness  of  simple  honesty  and 
blind  moral  instinct.  In  the  most  comprehensive  view  in 
politics,  something  is  sure  to  be  left  out,  and  that  some- 
thing is  apt  to  vitiate  the  sagacity  of  the  whole  combi- 
nation. 

Indeed,  there  is  auch  a  thing  as  being  over-wise,  in 
dealing  with  practical  affairs,  and  the  defect  of  Bacon's 
intellect  is  seen  the  moment  we  compare  it  with  an  in- 
tellect   like  that  of   Luther.     Bacon,  with  his  serene 


BACON.  337 

superiority  to  impulse,  and  his  power  of  giving  his 
mind  at  pleasure  its  close  compactness  or  fan-like 
spread,  could  hardly  have  failed  to  feel  for  Luther  that 
compassionate  contempt  v^'ith  which  men  possessing 
many  ideas  survey  men  who  are  possessed  by  one ;  yet 
it  is  certain  that  Luther  never  could  have  got  entangled 
in  Bacon's  errors,  for  his  habit  was  to  cut  knots  which 
Bacon  labored  to  untie.  Men  of  Luther's  stamp  never 
aim  to  be  wise  by  reach,  but  by  intensity,  of  intelligence. 
They  catch  a  vivid  glimpse  of  some  awful  spiritual  fact, 
in  whose  light  the  world  dwindles  and  pales,  and  then 
follow  its  inspiration  headlong,  paying  no  heed  to  the 
insinuating  whispers  of  prudence,  and  crashing  through 
the  glassy  expediencies  which  obstruct  their  path. 
Such  natures,  in  the  short  run,  are  the  most  visionary ; 
in  the  long  run,  the  most  practical.  Bacon  has  been 
praised  by  the  most  pertinacious  revilers  of  his  character 
for  his  indifference  to  the  metaphysical  and  theological 
controversies  which  raged  around  him.  They  seem 
not  to  see  that  this  indifference  came  from  his  de- 
ficiency in  the  intense  moral  and  religious  feelings  out 
of  which  those  controversies  arose.  It  would  have  been 
better  for  himself  had  he  been  more  of  a  fanatic ;  for 
such  a  stretch  of  intelligence  as  he  possessed  could  be 
purchased  only  at  the  expense  of  diffusing  the  forces 
of  his  personality  in  meditative  expansiveness,  and  of 
15  V 


338  BACON. 

weakening  bis  power  of  dealing  direct  blows  on  tbe   in- 
stinct or  intuition  of  tbe  moment. 

But,  while  tbis  man  was  witbout  tbe  austerer  virtues 
of  humanity,  we  must  not  forget  that  be  was  also  witb- 
out its  sour  and  malignant  vices  ;  and  he  stands  almost 
alone  in  litei'ature,  as  a  vast,  dispassionate  intellect,  in 
which  the  sentiment  of  philanthropy  has  been  refined 
and  purified  into  tbe  subtile  essence  of  thought.  With- 
out tbis  philanthropy  or  goodness,  be  tells  us,  "  man  is 
but  a  better  kind  of  vermin  "  ;  and  love  of  mankind,  with 
Bacon,  is  not  merely  tbe  noblest  feeling  but  the  highest 
reason.  Tbis  beneficence,  thus  transformed  into  intelli- 
gence, is  not  a  bard  opinion,  but  a  rich  and  mellow 
spii'it  of  humanity,  which  communicates  the  life  of  the 
quality  it  embodies  ;  and  we  cannot  more  fitly  conclude 
than  by  quoting  tbe  noble  sentence  in  which  Bacon,  after 
pointing  out  tbe  common  mistakes  regarding  the  true  end 
of  knowledge,  closes  by  divorcing  it  from  all  selfish  ego- 
tism and  ambition.  "  Men,"  be  says,  "  have  entered 
into  a  desire  of  learning  and  knowledge,  sometimes  upon 
a  natural  curiosity  and  inquisitive  appetite  ;  sometimes 
to  entertain  their  minds  with  variety  and  delight ;  some- 
times for  ornament  and  reputation  ;  and  sometimes  to 
enable  them  to  victory  of  wit  and  contradiction ;  and 
most  times  for  lucre  and  profession  ;  and  seldom  sin- 
cerely, to  give  a  true  account  of  their  gift  of  reason,  to 


BACON.  339 

the  benefit  and  use  of  man  :  as  if  there  were  sought 
in  knowledge  a  couch  whereupon  to  rest  a  searching  and 
restless  spirit ;  or  a  terrace  for  a  wandering  and  varia- 
ble mind  to  walk  up  and  down  with  a  fair  prospect ;  or  a 
tower  of  state,  for  a  proud  mind  to  raise  itself  upon  ;  or 
a  fort  or  commanding-ground  for  strife  or  contention  ; 
or  a  shop  for  profit  and  sale  ;  and  not  a  rich  storehouse, 
for  the  glory  of  the  Creator  and  the  relief  of  man's 
estate." 


HOOKEE. 

rilHE  life  of  the  "learned  and  judicious"  Mr.  Rich- 
ard Hooker,  by  Izaak  Walton,  is  one  of  the  most 
perfect  biographies  of  its  kind  in  literature.  But  it  is 
biography  on  its  knees ;  and  though  it  contains  some 
exquisite  touches  of  characterization,  it  does  not,  per- 
haps, convey  an  adequate  impression  of  the  energy  and 
enlargement  of  the  soul  whose  meekness  it  so  tenderly 
and  reverentially  portrays.  The  individuality  of  the 
writer  is  blended  with  that  of  his  subject,  and  much  of 
his  representation  of  Hooker  is  an  unconscious  ideali- 
zation of  himself.  The  intellectual  limitations  of  "Wal- 
ton are  felt  even  while  we  are  most  charmed  by  Ihe 
sweetness  of  his  spirit,  and  the  mind  of  the  greatest 
thinker  the  Church  of  England  has  produced  is  not  re- 
flected on  the  page  which  celebrates  his  virtues. 

Hooker's  life  is  the  record  of  the  upward  growth  of  a 
human  nature  into  that  region  of  sentiments  and  ideas 
where  sagacity  and  sanctity,  intelligence  and  goodness, 
are  but  different  names  for  one  vital  fact.  His  soul, 
and  the  character  his  soul  had  organized,  —  the  invisi- 
ble but  intensely  and  immortally  alive  part  of  him,  — 


HOOKER.  341 

was  domesticated  away  up  in  the  heavens,  even  while 
the  weak  visible  frame,  which  seemed  to  contain  it, 
walked  the  earth  ;  and  though  in  this  world  thrown 
controversially,  at  least,  into  the  Church  IMilitant,  the 
Church  Militant  caught,  through  him,  a  gleam  of  the 
consecrating  radiance,  and  a  glimpse  of  the  heaven- 
wide  ideas,  of  the  Church  Triumphant.  There  is  much 
careless  talk,  in  our  day,  of  "  spiritual  "  communication  ; 
but  it  must  never  be  forgotten  that  the  condition  of  real 
spiritual  communication  is  heiglit  of  soul  ;  and  that  the 
true  "  mediums  "  are  those  rare  persons  through  whom, 
as  through  Hooker,  spiritual  communications  stream,  in 
the  conceptions  of  purified,  spiritualized,  celestialized 
reason. 

Hooker  was  born  in  1553,  and  was  the  son  of  poor 
parents,  better  qualified  to  rejoice  in  his  early  piety  than 
to  appreciate  his  early  intelligence.  The  schoolmaster 
to  whom  the  boy  was  sent,  happy  in  a  pupil  whose  in- 
quisitive and  acquisitive  intellect  was  accompanied  with 
docility  of  temper,  believed  him,  in  the  words  of  "Wal- 
ton, "  to  be  blessed  with  an  inward  divine  light "  ;  thought 
him  a  little  wonder  ;  and  when  his  parents  expressed 
their  intention  to  bind  him  apprentice  to  some  trade,  the 
good  man  spared  no  efforts  until  he  succeeded  in  inter- 
esting Bishop  Jewell  in  the  stripling  genius.  Hooker, 
at  the  age  of  fourteen,  was  sent  by  Jewell  to  the  Uni- 


342  HOOKER. 

versity  of  Oxford  ;  and  after  Jewell's  death  Dr.  Sandys, 
the  Bishop  of  London,  became  his  patron.  He  partly 
supported  himself  at  the  univ^ersity  by  taking  pupils ; 
and  though  these  pupils  were  of  his  own  ago,  they  seem 
to  have  regarded  their  young  instructor  with  as  much 
reverence  as  they  gave  to  the  venerable  professors, 
and  a  great  deal  more  love.  Two  of  these  pupils,  Ed- 
win Sandys  and  George  Cranmer,  rose  to  distinction. 
As  a  teacher,  Hooker  communicated  not  merely  the  re- 
sults of  study,  but  the  spirit  of  study ;  some  radiations 
from  his  own  soul  fell  upon  the  minds  he  informed ;  and 
the  youth  fortunate  enough  to  be  his  pupil  might  have 
echoed  the  grateful  eulogy  of  the  poet :  — 

"  For  he  was  like  the  sun,  giving  me  light, 
Poui-ing  into  the  caves  of  mj'  j'oung  hrain 
Knowledge  from  his  bright  fountains." 

No  one,  perhaps,  was  better  pre[)ared  to  enter  holy 
orders  than  Hooker,  when,  after  fourteen  years  of  the 
profoundest  meditation  and  the  most  exhaustive  study, 
he,  in  his  twenty-eighth  year,  was  made  deacon  and 
priest.  And  now  came  the  most  unfortunate  event  of 
his  life ;  and  it  came  in  consequence  of  an  honor.  He 
wa^  appointed  to  preach  at  St.  Paul's  Cross,  a  2">ulpit  cross 
erected  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  and 
from  which  a  sermon  was  preached  every  Sunday  by 
some  eminent  divine,  before  an  assemblage  composed  of 


HOOKER.  343 

the  Court,  the  city  magistracy,  and  a  great  crowd  of  peo- 
ple. When  Hooker  arrived  in  London  on  Thursday, 
he  was  afflicted  with  so  severe  a  cold  that  he  despaired 
of  being  able  to  use  his  voice  on  Sunday.  His  host 
was  a  linen-draper  by  the  name  of  Churchman  ;  and  the 
wife  of  this  man  took  such  care  of  her  clerical  guest, 
that  his  cold  was  sufficiently  cured  to  enable  him  to 
preach  his  sermon.  Before  he  could  sufficiently  express 
his  gratitude,  she  proposed  further  to  increase  her  claim 
upon  it.  Mrs.  Churchman  —  unlike  the  rest  of  her  sex 
—  was  a  match-maker  3  and  she  represented  to  him  that 
he,  being  of  a  weak  constitution,  ought  to  have  a  wife 
who  would  prove  a  nurse  to  him,  and  thus,  by  affection- 
ate care,  prolong  his  existence,  and  make  it  comfortable. 
Her  benevolence  not  stopping  here,  she  offered  to  pro- 
vide such  a  one  for  him  herself,  if  he  thought  fit  to 
marry.  The  good  man,  who  had,  in  his  sermon,  deemed 
himself  capable  of  arguing  the  question  of  two  wills  in 
God,  "  an  antecedent  and  a  consequent  will,  —  his  first 
will,  that  all  men  should  be  saved ;  his  second,  that  those 
only  should  be  saved  who  had  lived  answerable  to  the 
degree  of  grace  afforded  them,"  —  a  subject  large 
enough  to  convulse  the  theological  world,  —  the  good 
man  listened  to  Mrs.  Churchman  with  a  more  serene  trust- 
fulness than  he  would  have  listened  to  an  Archbishop, 
and  gave  her  power  to  select  such  a  nurse-wife  for  him : 


344  HOOKER. 

he,  tlie  thinker  and  scholar,  —  who,  in  the  sweep  of  his 
mind  through  human  learning,  had  probably  never  en- 
countered an  intelligence  capable  of  deceiving  his  own,  — 
falling  blandly  into  the  toils  of  an  ignorant,  cunning,  and 
low-minded  match-maker !  This  benevolent  lady  had  a 
daughter,  whose  manners  were  vulgar,  whose  face  was 
unprepossessing,  whose  temper  was  irritable  and  exact- 
ing, but  who  had  youth,  and  romance  enough  to  discrimi- 
nate between  being  married  and  going  out  to  service  ; 
and  this  was  the  wife  Mrs.  Churchman  selected,  and  this 
was  the  wife  gratefully  and  guilelessly  received  from 
her  hands  by  the  "judicious  Mr.  Hooker."  Izaak  "Wal- 
ton moralizes  sweetly  and  sedately  over  this  transaction, 
taking  the  ground  that  it  was  providential,  and  that 
affliction  is  a  divine  diet  imposed  by  God  on  souls  that 
he  loves.  Is  this  the  right  way  to  look  at  it?  Every- 
thing is  providential  after  it  has  happened  ;  but  retribu- 
tion is  in  the  events  of  providence,  as  well  as  chastening. 
Hooker,  in  truth,  had  unconsciously  slipped  into  a  sin ; 
for  he  had  intended  a  marriage  of  convenience,  and  that 
of  the  worst  sort.  He  had  violated  all  the  providential 
conditions  implied  in  the  sacred  relation  of  marriage. 
It  was  a  marriage  in  which  there  was  no  mutual  affec- 
tion, no  assurance  of  mutual  help,  no  union  of  souls  ; 
and  as  he  took  his  wife  to  be  his  nurse,  what  won- 
der   that    she    preferred    the    more    natural    office    of 


HOOKER.  345 

vixen  ?  And  though  every  man  and  woman  who  reads 
the  account  of  the  manner  in  which  she  tormented  hira 
thinks  she  deserved  to  have  had  some  mechanical  con- 
trivance attached  to  her  shoulders  which  should  box 
her  ears  at  every  scolding  word  she  uttered,  it  seems  to 
be  overlooked  that  great  original  injustice  was  done  to 
her.  We  take  much  delight  in  being  the  first  who  has 
ever  said  a  humane  word  for  the  ^Kjudicious  Mrs. 
Hooker.  Married,  but  not  mated,  to  that  angelic  intel- 
lect and  that  meek  spirit,  —  taken  as  a  servant  more 
than  as  a  wife,  —  she  felt  the  degradation  of  her  position 
keenly ;  and,  there  being  no  possibility  of  equality  be- 
tween them,  she,  in  spiritual  self-defence,  established  in 
the  household  the  despotism  of  caprice  and  the  tyranny 
of  the  tongue. 

His  marriage  compelled  Hooker  to  resign  his  fellow- 
ship at  Oxford ;  and  he  accepted  a  small  parish  in  the 
diocese  of  Lincoln.  Here,  about  a  year  afterwards,  he 
was  visited  by  his  two  former  pupils,  Edwin  Sandys  and 
George  Cranmer.  It  was  sufficient  for  Mrs.  Hooker  to 
know  that  they  were  scholars,  and  that  they  revered  her 
husband.  She  accordingly  at  once  set  in  motion  certain 
petty  feminine  modes  of  annoyance,  to  indicate  that  her 
husband  was  her  servant,  and  that  his  friends  were  un- 
welcome guests.  As  soon  as  they  were  fairly  engaged 
in  conversation,  recalling  and  living  over  the  quiet 
15* 


346  HOOKER. 

joys  of  tlieir  college  life,  the  amiable  lady  that  Mr. 
Hooker  had  married  to  be  his  nurse  called  him  sharjily 
to  come  and  rock  the  cradle.  His  friends  were  all  but 
turned  out  of  the  house.  Cranmer,  in  parting  with 
him,  said  :  "  Good  tutor,  I  am  sorry  that  your  lot  is 
fallen  in  no  better  ground  as  to  your  parsonage  ;  and 
more  sorry  that  your  wife  proves  not  a  more  comfortable 
companion,  after  you  have  wearied  yourself  in  your 
restless  studies."  "  My  dear  George,"  was  Hooker's 
answer,  "  if  saints  have  usually  a  double  share  in  the 
miseries  of  this  life,  I,  that  am  none,  ought  not  to  re- 
pine at  what  my  wise  Creator  hath  appointed  for  me, 
but  labor  —  as  indeed  I  do  daily  —  to  submit  mine  to 
his  will,  and  possess  my  soul  in  patience  and  peace."  Is 
it  not  to  be  supposed  that  John  Calvin,  if  placed  in 
similar  circumstances,  would  have  shown  a  little  more 
of  the  ancient  Adam  ?  Would  it  not  have  been  some- 
what dangerous  for  Catherine,  wife  of  Martin  Luther, 
to  have  screamed  to  her  husband  to  come  and  rock  the 
cradle  while  he  was  discoursing  with  Melancthon  on  the 
insufficiency  of  works  ? 

One  result  of  this  visit  of  his  pupils  was  that  Sandys, 
whose  father  was  Archbishop  of  York,  warmly  repre- 
sented to  that  dignitary  of  the  Church  the  scandal  of 
allowing  such  a  combination  of  the  saint  and  sage  as 
Richard  Hooker  to  be  buried  in  a  small  country  parson- 


HOOKER.  347 

age  ;  and,  the  mastership  of  the  Temple  falling  vacant 
at  this  time,  the  Archbishop  used  his  influence  with  the 
judges  and  benchers,  and  in  March,  1585,  obtained 
the  place  for  Hooker.  But  this  promotion  was  destined 
to  give  him  new  disquiets,  rather  than  diminish  old  ones. 
The  lecturer  who  preached  the  evening  sermons  at 
the  Temple  was  Walter  Travers,  —  an  able,  learned, 
and  resolute  theologian,  who  preferred  the  Presbyterian 
form  of  church-government  to  the  Episcopal,  and  who, 
in  his  theological  belief,  agreed  with  the  Puritans.  It 
soon  came  to  be  noted  that  the  sermon  by  Hooker  in 
the  morning  disagreed,  both  as  to  doctrine  and  disci- 
pline, with  the  sermon  delivered  by  his  subaltern  in  the 
evening ;  and  it  was  wittily  said  that  "  the  forenoon 
sermon  spake  Canterbury  and  the  afternoon  Geneva." 
This  difference  soon  engaged  public  attention.  Canter- 
bury stepped  in,  and  prohibited  Geneva  from  preachinof. 
Travers  appealed  unsuccessfully  to  the  Privy  Council, 
and  then  his  friends  privately  printed  his  petition. 
Hooker  felt  himself  compelled  to  answer  it.  As  the 
controversy  refers  to  deep  mysteries  of  religion,  still 
vehemently  debated,  it  would  be  impertinent  to  venture 
a  judgment  on  the  relative  merits  of  the  disputants ; 
but  it  may  be  said  that  the  reasoning  of  Hooker,  when 
the  discussion  does  not  turn  on  the  meaning  of  authori- 
tative Scripture  texts,  insinuates  itself  with  more  sub- 


348  HOOKER. 

tile  cogency  into  the  natural  heart  and  brain,  and  is 
incomparably  more  human  and  humane,  than  the  reason- 
ing of  his  antagonist.  A  fine  intellectual  contempt 
steals  out  in  Hooker's  rejoinder  to  the  charges  of  Trav- 
ers  regarding  some  minor  ceremonies,  for  which  the 
Puritans,  in  their  natural  jealousy  of  everything  that 
seemed  popish,  had,  perhaps,  an  irrational  horror,  and 
to  which  the  Churchmen  were  apt  to  give  an  equally 
irrational  importance.  Hooker  quietly  refers  to  "  other 
exceptions,  so  like  these,  as  but  to  name  I  should  have 
thought  a  greater  fault  than  to  commit  them."  One 
retort  has  acquired  deserved  celebrity  :  "  Your  next 
argument  consists  of  railing  and  reasons.  To  your  rail- 
ing I  say  nothing  ;  to  your  reasons  I  say  what  follows." 
It  was  unfortunate  for  Hooker's  logic  that  it  was  sup- 
ported by  the  arm  of  power.  Travers  had  the  great 
advantage  of  being  persecuted;  and  his  numerous 
friends  in  the  Temple  found  ways  to  make  Hooker  so 
uncomfortable  that  he  wished  himself  back  in  his  se- 
cluded parish,  with  nobody  to  torment  him  but  his  wife. 
He  was  a  great  controversialist,  as  far  as  reason  enters 
into  controversies  ;  but  the  passions  which  turn  contro- 
versies into  contentions,  and  edge  arguments  witli  invec- 
tive, were  foreign  to  his  serenely  capacious  intellect 
and  peaceable  disposition.  As  he  brooded  over  the  con- 
dition of  the  Church  and  the  disputes  raging  within  it, 


HOOKER.  349 

he  more  and  more  felt  the»  necessity  of  surveying  the 
whole  controversy  from  a  higher  ground,  in  larger  rela- 
tions, and  in  a  more  Christian  spirit.  So  far,  the 
dispute  raged  within,  and  had  not  rent,  the  Church. 
The  Puritans  were  not  dissenters,  attacking  the  Church 
from  without,  but  reformers,  attempting  to  alter  its  con- 
stitution from  within.  The  idea  occurred  to  Hooker, 
that  a  treatise  might  be  written,  demonstrating  "  the 
power  of  the  Church  to  make  canons  for  the  use  of 
ceremonies,  and  by  law  to  impose  obedience  to  them,  as 
upon  her  children,"  —  written  with  sufficient  compre- 
hensiveness of  thought  and  learning  to  convince  the 
reason  of  his  opponents,  and  with  sufficient  comprehen- 
siveness of  love  to  engage  their  affiictions.  This  idea 
ripened  into  the  Ecclesiastical  Polity.  He  began  this  trea- 
tise at  the  Temple  ;  but  he  found  that  the  theological  at- 
mosphei'e  of  the  place,  though  it  stimulated  the  intellectual, 
was  ungenial  to  the  loving  qualities  he  intended  to  em- 
body in  his  treatise ;  and  he  therefore  begged  the  Arch- 
bishop to  transfer  him  to  some  quiet  parsonage,  where 
he  might  think  in  peace.  Accordingly,  in  1591,  he  re- 
ceived the  Rectory  of  Boscum;  and  afterwards,  in  1595, 
the  Queen,  who  seems  to  have  held  him  in  great  respect, 
presented  him  with  the  living  of  Bourne,  where  he  re- 
mained until  his  death,  which  occurred  in  the  year  1600, 
in  his  forty-sixth  year.     In  1594  four  books  of  the  Ec- 


350  HOOKER. 

clesiastical  Polity  were  published,  and  a  fifth  in  1597  ; 
the  others  not  till  after  his  death.  Walton  gives  a  most 
beautiful  picture  of  him  in  his  parsonage,  illustrating 
Hooker's  own  maxim,  "  that  the  life  of  a  pious  clergy- 
man is  visible  rhetoric."  His  humility,  benevolence, 
self-denial,  devotion  to  his  duties,  the  innocent  wisdom 
which  marked  his  whole  intercourse  with  his  parish- 
ioners, and  his  fasting  and  mortifications,  are  all  set 
forth  in  Walton's  blandest  diction.  The  most  surprising 
item  in  this  list  of  perfections  is  the  last ;  for  how,  with 
"  the  clownish  and  silly  "  Mrs.  Hooker  always  snarling 
and  snapping  below,  while  he  was  looking  into  the 
empyrean  of  ideas  from  the  summits  of  his  intellect,  he 
needed'  any  more  of  the  discipline  of  mortification,  it 
would  puzzle  the  most  resolute  ascetic  to  tell.  That 
amiable  lady,  as  soon  as  she  understood  that  her  hus- 
band was  opposed  to  the  Puritans,  seems  to  have  joined 
them ;  spite,  and  the  desire  to  plague  him,  appearing  to 
inspire  her  with  an  unwonted  interest  in  theology, 
though  we  have  no  record  of  her  theological  genius, 
except  the  apparently  erroneous  report  that,  after 
Hooker's  death,  she  destroyed  or  mutilated  some  of  his 
manuscripts.  In  Keble's  Preface  to  his  edition  of 
Hooker's  Works  will  be  found  an  elaborate  account 
of  the  publication  of  the  last  three  books  of  the  Ec- 
clesiastical Polity,  and  an  examination  and  approximate 


HOOIvER.  351 

settlement  of  the  question  regarding  their  authenticity 
and  coinpleteness.      * 

Hooker's  nature  was  essentially  an  intellectual  one; 
and  the  wonder  of  his  mental  biography  is  the  celerity 
and  certainty  with  which  he  transmuted  knowledge  and 
experience  into  intelligence.  It  may  be  a  fancy,  but 
we  think  it  can  be  detected  in  an  occasional  uncharac- 
teristic tartness  of  expression,  that  he  had  carried  up 
even  Mrs.  Hooker  into  the  region  of  his  intellect,  and 
dissolved  her  termagant  tongue  into  a  fine  spiritual 
essence  of  gentle  sarcasm.  Not  only  did  his  vast  learn- 
ing pass,  as  successively  acquired,  from  memory  into 
faculty,  but  the  daily  beauty  of  his  life  left  its  finest  and 
last  result  in  his  brain.  His  patience,  humility,  dis- 
interestedness, self-denial,  his  pious  and  humane  senti- 
ments, every  resistance  to  temptation,  every  benevolent 
act,  every  holy  prayer,  were  by  some  subtile  chemistry 
turned  into  thought,  and  gave  his  intellect  an  upward 
lift,  —  increasing  the  range  of  its  vision,  and  bringing  it 
into  closer  proximity  with  great  ideas.  We  cannot  read 
a  page  of  his  writings,  without  feeling  the  presence  of 
this  spiritual  power  in  conception,  statement,  and  argu- 
ment. And  this  moral  excellence,  which  has  thus 
become  moral  intelligence,  this  holiness  which  is  in  per- 
fect union  with  reason,  this  spirit  of  love  which  can  not 
only  feel  but  see,  gives  a  softness,  richness,  sweetness, 


352  HOOKER. 

and  warmth  to  his  thinking,  quite  as  peculiar  to  it  as  its 
dignity,  amphtude,  and  elevation. 

As  a  result  of  this  deep,  silent,  and  rapid  growth  of 
nature,  this  holding  in  his  intelligence  all  the  results 
of  his  emotional  and  moral  life,  he  attaches  our  sympa- 
thies as  we  follow  the  stream  of  his  arguments ;  for  we 
feel  that  he  has  communed  with  all  the  principles  he 
communicates,  and  knows  by  direct  perception  the  spir- 
itual realities  he  announces.  His  intellect,  accordingly, 
does  not  act  by  intuitive  flashes ;  but  "  his  soul  has 
sight "  of  eternal  verities,  and  directs  at  them  a  clear, 
steady,  divining  gaze.  He  has  no  lucky  thoughts; 
everything  is  earned ;  he  knows  what  he  knows,  in  all 
its  multitudinous  relations,  and  cannot  be  surprised  by 
sudden  objections,  convicting  him  of  oversight  of  even 
the  minutest  application  of  any  principle  he  holds  in  his 
calm,  strong  grasp.  And  as  a  controversialist  he  has 
the  immense  advantage  of  descending  into  the  field  of 
controversy  from  a  height  above  it,  and  commanding  it, 
while  his  opponents  are  wrangling  with  their  minds  on  a 
level  with  it.  The  great  difficulty  in  the  man  of  thought 
is,  to  connect  his  thought  with  life ;  and  half  the  litera- 
ture of  theology  and  morals  is  therefore  mere  satire, 
simply  exhibiting  the  immense,  unbridged,  ironic  gulf 
that  yawns,  wide  as  that  between  Lazarus  and  Dives, 
between  truth  and  duty  on  the  one  hand  and  the  actual 


HOOKER.  353 

affairs  and  conduct  of  the  world  on  the  other.  But 
Hooker,  one  of  the  loftiest  of  thinkers,  was  also  one 
of  the  most  practical.  His  shining  idea,  away  up  in 
the  heaven  of  contemplation,  sends  its  rays  of  light 
and  warmth  in  a  thousand  directions  upon  the  cartli ; 
illuminating  palace  and  cottage ;  piercing  into  the  crevi- 
ces and  corners  of  concrete  existence  ;  relating  the  high 
with  the  low,  austere  obligation  with  feeble  perform- 
ance ;  and  showing  the  obscure  tendencies  of  imperfect 
institutions  to  realize  divine  laws. 

This  capacious  soul  was  lodged  in  one  of  the  feeblest 
of  bodies.  Pliysiologists  are  never  weary  of  telling  us 
that  masculine  health  is  necessary  to  vigor  of  mind ; 
but  the  vast  mental  strength  of  Hooker  was  inde- 
pendent of  his  physical  constitution.  His  appearance 
in  the  pulpit  conveyed  no  idea  of  a  great  man.  Small 
in  stature,  with  a  low  voice,  using  no  gesture,  never 
moving  his  person  or  lifting  his  eyes  from  his  ser- 
mon, he  seemed  the  very  embodiment  of  clerical  in- 
capacity and  dulness;  but  soon  the  thoughtful  listener 
found  his  mind  fascinated  by  the  automaton  speaker; 
a  still,  devout  ecstasy  breathed  from  the  pallid  lips ;  the 
profoundest  thought  and  the  most  extensive  learning 
found  calm  expression  in  the  low  accents ;  and,  more 
surprising  still,  the  somewhat  rude  mother-tongue  of 
Englishmen  was  heard  for  the  first  time  from  the  lips 

■w 


354  HOOKEE. 

of  a  master  of  prose  composition,  demonstrating  its 
capacity  for  all  the  purposes  of  the  most  refined  and 
most  enlarged  philosophic  thought.  Indeed,  the  serene 
might  of  Hooker's  soul  is  perhaps  most  obviously  per- 
ceived in  his  style,  —  in  the  easy  power  with  which  he 
wields  and  bends  to  his  purpose  a  language  not  yet 
trained  into  a  ready  vehicle  of  philosophic  expression. 
It  is  doubtful  if  any  English  writer  since  his  time  has 
shown  equal  power  in  the  construction  of  long  sen- 
tences, —  those  sentences  in  which  the  thought,  and  the 
atmosphere  of  the  thought,  and  the  modifications  of  the 
thought,  are  all  included  in  one  sweeping  period,  which 
gathers  clause  after  clause  as  it  rolls  melodiously  on 
to  its  foreseen  conclusion,  having  the  general  gravity 
and  grandeur  of  its  modulated  movement  pervaded  by 
an  inexpressibly  sweet  undertone  of  individual  senti- 
ment. And  his  strength  is  free  from  every  fretful  and 
morbid  quality  such  as  commonly  taint  the  performances 
of  a  strong  mind  lodged  in  a  sickly  body.  It  is  as 
serene,  wholesome,  and  comprehensive,  as  it  is  powerful. 
The  Ecclesiastical  Polity  is  the  great  theological 
work  of  the  Elizabethan  age.  Pope  Clement  having 
said  to  Cardinal  Allen  and  Dr.  Stapleton,  English  Ro- 
man Catholics  at  Rome,  that  he  had  never  met  with  an 
English  book  whose  writer  deserved  the  name  of  author, 
they  replied  that  a  poor,  obscure  English   priest  had 


HOOKER.  355 

written  a  work  on  church  polity,  which  if  he  sliould 
read  would  change  his  opinion.  At  the  conclusion  of 
the  first  book,  the  Pope  is  said  to  have  delivered  this 
judgment:  "There  is  no  learning  that  this  man  hath 
not  searched  into,  nothing  too  hard  for  his  understand- 
ing. This  man  indeed  deserves  the  name  of  an  author ; 
his  books  will  get  reverence  from  age ;  for  there  is  in 
them  such  seeds  of  eternity,  that,  if  the  rest  be  like  this, 
they  shall  last  until  the  last  fire  consume  all  learning." 
But  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  rest,  however  great 
their  merits,  are  not  "  like  this."  The  first  book  of  the 
Ecclesiastical  Polity  is  not  only  the  best,  but  it  is  that 
in  which  Hooker's  mind  is  most  effectually  brought  into 
relation  with  all  thinking  minds,  and  that  in  virtue  of 
which  he  takes  his  high  place  in  the  history  of  litera- 
ture and  philosophy.  The  theologians  he  opposed  in- 
sisted that  a  definite  scheme  of  church  polity  was 
revealed  in  the  Scriptures,  and  was  obligatory  on  Chris- 
tians. This,  of  course,  reduced  the  controversy  to  a 
mere  wrangle  about  the  meaning  of  certain  texts ;  and, 
as  this  mode  of  disputation  does  not  make  any  call  upon 
the  higher  mental  and  spiritual  powers,  it  has  always 
been  popular  among  theologians,  —  giving  everybody  a 
chance  in  the  textual  and  logical  skirmish,  and  condu- 
cing to  that  anarchy  of  opinions  which  is  not  without  its 
charm  to  the  sternest  champion  of  authority,  if  he  has  in 


356  '       _  HOOKER. 

him  the  belligerent  instinct.  But  Hooker,  constitution- 
ally averse  to  controversy,  and  looking  at  it,  not  as  an 
end,  but  a  means,  had  that  aching  for  order  which  char- 
acterizes a  peaceable  spirit,  and  that  demand  for  funda- 
mental ideas  which  characterizes  a  great  mind.  Ac- 
cordingly, in  the  first  book,  he  mounts  above  the  con- 
troversy before  entering  into  it,  and  surveys  the  whole 
question  of  law,  from  the  one  eternal,  Divine  Law  to  the 
laws  which  are  in  force  among  men.  He  makes  the 
laws  whicli  God  has  written  in  the  reason  of  man  divine 
laws,  as  well  as  those  he  has  supernaturally  revealed 
in  the  Scriptures ;  and  especially  he  enforces  the  some- 
what startling  principle,  that  law  is  variable  or  invaria- 
ble, not  according  to  the  source  from  which  it  emanates, 
but  according  to  the  matter  to  which  it  refers.  If  the 
matter  be  changeable,  be  mutable,  the  law  must  partici- 
pate in  the  mutability  of  that  which  it  was  designed  to 
regulate  ;  and  this  principle,  he  insists,  is  independent 
of  the  fact  whether  the  law  originated  in  God  or  in  the 
divinely  constituted  reason  of  man.  Tliere  are  some 
laws  which  God  has  written  in  the  reason  of  man  Avhich 
are  immutable  ;  there  are  some  laws  supernaturally 
revealed  in  Scripture  which  are  mutable.  In  the  first 
case,  no  circumstance  can  justify  their  violation  ,  in  the 
other,  circumstances  necessitate  a  change.  The  bearing 
of  this  principle  on  the, right  of  the  Church  of  England 


HOOKER.  357 

to  command  rules  and  ceremonies  which  might  not  have 
been  commanded  by  Scripture  is  plain.  Even  if  tlie 
principle  were  denied  by  his  opponents,  it  could  be 
properly  denied  only  by  being  confuted  ;  and  to  confute 
it  exacted  the  lifting  up  of  the  controversy  into  the 
region  of  ideas. 

But  it  is  not  so  much  in  the  conception  and  appli- 
cation of  one  principle,  as  in  the  exhibition  of  many 
principles  harmoniously  related,  that  Hooker's  largeness 
of  comprehension  is  shown.  No  other  great  logician  is 
so  free  from  logical  fanaticism.  His  mind  gravitates  to 
truth  ;  and  it  therefore  limits  and  guards  the  application 
of  single  truths,  detecting  that  fine  point  where  many 
principles  unite  in  forming  wisdom,  and  refusing  to  be 
pushed  too  far  in  any  one  direction.  He  has  his  hands 
on  the  reins  of  a  hundred  wild  horses,  unaccustomed  to 
exercise  their  strength  and  fleetness  in  joint  effort ;  but 
the  moment  they  feel  the  might  of  his  meekness,  they 
all  sedately  obey  the  directing  power  which  sends  them 
in  orderly  motion  to  a  common  goal.  The  central  idea 
of  his  book  is  law.  Even  God,  he  contends,  "  works 
not  only  according  to  his  own  will,  but  the  counsel 
of  his  own  will,"  according  "  to  the  order  which 
he  before  all  ages  hath  set  down  for  himself  to  do  all 
things  by."  A  self-conscious,  personal,  working,  divine 
reason  is  therefore  at   the  heart  of  things^   and  infinite 


358  HOOKER. 

poioer  and  infinite  love  are  identical  with  infinite  intelli- 
gence. Hooker's  breadth  of  mind  is  evinced  in  his  refus- 
ing, unlike  most  theologians,  to  emphasize  and  detach  any- 
one of  these  divine  perfections,  whether  it  be  power,  or 
love,  or  intelHgence.  Intelligence  is  in  power  and  love  ; 
power  and  love  are  in  intelligence. 

It  would  be  impossible,  in  our  short  space,  to  trace 
the  descent  of  Hooker's  central  idea  of  law  to  its  appli- 
cations to  men  and  states.  The  law  which  the  angels 
obey,  the  law  of  nature,  the  law  which  binds  man  as  an 
individual,  the  law  which  binds  him  as  member  of  a 
politic  community,  the  law  which  bmds  him  as  a  mem- 
ber of  a  religious  community,  the  law  which  binds  na- 
tions in  their  mutual  relations,  —  all  are  exhibited  with 
a  force  and  clearness  of  vision,  a  mastery  of  ethical 
and  political  philosophy,  a  power  of  dealing  with  rela- 
tive as  well  as  absolute  truth,  and  a  sagacity  of  practi- 
cal observation,  which  are  remarkable  both  in  their 
separate  excellence  and  their  exquisite  combination. 
To  this  comprehensive  treatise  Agassiz  the  naturalist, 
Story  the  jurist,  Webster  the  statesman.  Garrison  the 
reformer,  could  all  go  for  principles,  and  for  applications 
of  principles.  He  appreciates,  beyond  any  other  thinker 
who  has  taken  his  stand  on  the  Higher  Law,  but  who 
still  believes  in  the  binding  force  of  the  laws  of  men, 
the  difficulty  of  making  an  individual,  to  whom  that  Law 


HOOKER.  359 

is  revealed  througli  reason,  a  member  of  a  politic  or  re- 
li'^ious  community ;  and  he  admits  that  the  best  men, 
individually,  are  often  those  who  are  apt  to  be  most  un- 
manageable in  their  relations  to  state  and  chuFch.  The 
arf^ument  he  addresses  to  such  minds,  though  it  may  not 
be  conclusive,  is  probably  the  least  unsatisfactory  that 
has  ever  been  framed ;  for  it  is  presented  in  connection 
with  a'.l  that  he  has  previously  said  in  regard  to  tlie 
binding  force  of  the   divine   law. 

Of  this  divine  law,  —  the  law  which  angels  obey  ;  the 
law  of  love  ;  the  law  which  binds  in  virtue  of  its  power 
to  allure  and  attract,  and  which  weds  obligation  to  ec- 
stasy, —  of  this  law  he  thus  speaks  iu  language  which 
seems  touched  with  a  consecrating  radiance  :  — 

"  But  now  that  we  may  lift  up  our  eyes  (as  it  were) 
from  the  footstool  to  tlie  throne  of  God,  and,  leaving 
these  natural,  consider  a  little  the  state  of  heavenly  and 
divine  creatures  :  touching  angels,  which  are  spirits  im- 
material and  intellectual,  the  glorious  inhabitants  of 
those  sacred  palaces,  where  nothing  but  light  and 
blessed  immortality,  no  shadow  of  matter  for  tears,  dis- 
contentments, griefs,  and  uncomfortable  passions  to  work 
upon,  but  all  joy,  tranquillity,  and  peace,  even  for  ever 
and  ever  doth  dwell :  as  in  number  and  order  they  are 
huge,  mighty,  and  royal  armies,  so  likewise  in  perfec- 
tion of  obedience  unto  that  law,  which  the   Highest, 


360  HOOKER. 

whom  they  adore,  love,  and  imitate,  hath  imposed  upon 
them,  such  observants  they  are  thereof,  that  our  Sav- 
iour himself,  being  to  set  down  the  perfect  idea  of  that 
which  we  are  to  pray  and  wish  for  on  earth,  did  not 
teach  to  pray  and  wish  for  more  than  only  that  here  it 
might  be  with  us  as  with  them  it  is  in  heaven.  God, 
which  moveth  mere  natural  agents  as  an  efficient  only, 
doth  otherwise  move  intellectual  creatures,  and  especially 
his  holy  angels  :  for,  beholding  the  face  of  God,  in  admi- 
ration of  so  great  excellency  they  all  adore  him  ;  and,  be- 
ing rapt  with  the  love  of  his  beauty,  they  cleave  insepara- 
bly forever  unto  him.  Desire  to  resemble  him  in  good- 
ness maketh  them  unweariable,  and  even  insatiable,  in 
their  longing  to  do  by  all  means  all  manner  of  good  unto 
all  the  creatures  of  God,  but  especially  unto  the  children 
of  men  :  in  the  countenance  of  whose  nature,  looking 
downward,  they  behold  themselves  beneath  themselves  ; 
even  as  upward,  in  God,  beneath  whom  themselves  are, 
they  see  that  character  which  is  nowhere  but  in  them- 
selves and  us  resembled Angelical  actions  may, 

therefore,  be  reduced  unto  these  three  general  kinds  : 
first,  most  delectable  love,  arising  from  the  visible  ap- 
prehension of  the  purity,  glory,  and  beauty  of  God,  in- 
visible saving  only  to  spirits  that  are  pure  ;  secondly, 
adoration,  grounded  upon  the  evidence  of  the  greatness  of 
God,  on  whom  they  see  how  all  things  depend  ;  thirdly, 


HOOKER.  '861 

imitation,  bred  by  the  presence  of  bis  exemplary  good- 
ness, who  ceaseth  not  before  them  daily  to  fill  heaven 
and  earth  with  the  rich  treasures  of  most  free  and  unde- 
served grace." 

And  though  the  concluding  passage  of  the  first  book 
of  the  Ecclesiastical  Polity  has  been  a  thousand  times 
quoted,  it  would  be  unjust  to  Hooker  not  here  to  cite  the 
sentence  which  most  perfectly  embodies  his  soul :  — 

"  Wherefore,  that  here  we  may  briefly  end :  of  law 
there  can  be  no  less  acknowledged,  than  that  her  seat  is 
the  bosom  of  God,  her  voice  the  harmony  of  the  world : 
all  things  in  heaven  and  earth  do  her  homage,  the  very" 
least  as  feeling  her  care,  and  the  greatest  as  not  ex- 
empted from  her  power ;  both  angels  and  men  and 
creatures  of  what  condition  soever,  though  each  in  differ- 
ent sort  and  manner,  yet  all  with  uniform  consent,  ad- 
miring her  as  the  mother  of  their  peace  and  their  joy." 

In  concluding  these  essays  on  the  Literature  of  the 
Age  of  Elizabeth,  let  us  pass  rapidly  in  review  the 
writers  to  whom  they  have  referred.  And  first  for  the 
dramatists,  whose  works  —  in  our  day  on  the  dissecting- 
tables  of  criticism,  but  in  their  own  all  alive  with  intel- 
lect and  passion  —  made  the  theatres  of  Elizabeth  and 
James  rock  and  ring  with  the  clamors  or  plaudits  of  a 
mob  too  excited  to  be  analytic.  Of  these  professors  of 
16 


3G2  HOOKER. 

the  science  of  human  nature,  we  have  attempted  to  por- 
tray the  fiery  imagination  that  flames  through  the  fus- 
tian and  animal  fierceness  of  JNIarlowe  ;  the  bluff  arro- 
gance of  the  outspoken  Jonson,  with  his  solid  understand- 
ing, caustic  humor,  delicate  fancy,  and  undeviating  be- 
lief in  Ben  ;  the  close  observation  and  teeming  mother- 
wit  which  found  vent  in  the  limpid  verse  of  Heywood  ; 
Middleton's  sardonic  sagacity,  and  Marston's  envenomed 
satire  ;  the  suffering,  and  the  soaring  and  singing  cheer, 
the  beggary  a:id  the  benignity,  so  quaintly  united  in 
Dekkar's  vagrant  life  and  sunny  genius  ;  Webster's  be- 
wildering terror,  and  Chapman's  haughty  aspiration ; 
the  subtile  sentiment  of  Beaumont  ;  the  fertile,  flashing, 
and  ebullient  spirit  of  Fletcher ;  the  easy  dignity  of 
Massinger's  thinking,  and  the  sonorous  majesty  of  his 
style  ;  the  fastidious  elegance  and  melting  tenderness 
of  Ford  ;  and  the  one-souled,  "  myriad-minded  "  Shake- 
speare, who  is  so  unmistakably  beyond  them  all. 

Then,  recurring  to  the  undramatic  poets,  we  have  en- 
deavored to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  fairy-land  of  Spen- 
ser's celestialized  imagination  ;  and  lightly  to  touch  on 
the  characteristics  of  the  poets  who  preceded  and  fol- 
lowed him ;  on  the  sternly  serious  and  unjoyous  cre- 
ativeness  of  Sackville ;  the  meditative  fulness  and 
tender  fancy  of  "  well-languaged  "  Daniel ;  the  enthusias- 
tic expansiveness  of  description,  and  pure,  bright,  and 


HOOKER.  363 

vigorous  diction  of  Drayton  ;  the  sententious  sharpness 
of  Hall ;  the  clear  imaginative  insight  and  dialectic  felici- 
ty of  Duvies  ;  the  metaphysical  voluptuousness  and  witty 
unreason  of  Donne  ;  the  genial,  thoughtful,  well-propor- 
tioned soul  of  Wotton  ;  the  fantastic  devoutuess  of  Her- 
bert; and  the  coarsely  frenzied  commonplaces  of  Warner, 

"  Who  stood 
Up  to  the  chin  in  the  Pierian  "  —  mud ! 

Again,  in  Sidney  we  have  striven  to  portray  genius 
and  goodness  as  expressed  in  behavior ;  in  Raleigh, 
genius  and  audacity  as  expressed  in  insatiable,  though 
somewhat  equivocal,  activity  of  arm  and  brain  ;  in  Ba- 
con, the  beneficence  and  the  autocracy  of  an  intellect 
whose  comprehensiveness  needs  no  celebration ;  and 
in  Hooker,  the  passage  of  holiness  into  intelligence,  and 
the  spirit  of  love  into  the  power  of  reason. 

And,  in  attempting  to  delineate  so  many  diverse  indi- 
vidualities, we  have  been  painfully  conscious  of  another 
and  more  difficult  audience  than  that  we  address.  The 
imperial  intellects,  —  the  Bacons,  Hookers,  Shake- 
ppeares,  and  Spensers,  the  men  who  on  earth  are  as 
much  alive  now  as  they  were  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago,  —  are,  in  their  assured  intellectual  dominion, 
blandly  careless  of  the  judgments  of  individuals ;  but 
there  is  a  large  class  of  writers  whose  genius  we  have 
considered,  who  have  well-nigh  passed  away  from  the 


364  HOOKER. 

protecting,  admiration  and  affectionate  memory  of  gen- 
eral readers.  As  we,  more  or  less  roughly,  handled 
these,  as  we  felt  the  pulse  of  life  throbbing  in  every 
time-stained  and  dust-covered  volume,  —  dust  out  of 
which  Man  was  originally  made,  and  to  which  Man,  as 
author,  is  commonly  so  sure  to  return,  —  the  books  re- 
sumed their  original  form  of  men,  became  personal 
forces,  to  resent  impeachments  of  their  honor,  or  miscon- 
ceptions of  their  genius  ;  and  a  troop  of  Spirits  stalked 
from  the  neglected  pages  to  confront  their  irreverent 
critic.  There  they  were,  —  ominous  or  contemptuous 
judges  of  the  person  who  assumed  to  be  their  judge : 
on  the  faces  of  some,  sarcastic  denial ;  on'others,  tender 
reproaches  ;  on  others,  benevolent  pity  ;  on  others,  se- 
renely beautiful  indifference  or  disdain.  "  Who  taught 
you,"  their  looks  seemed  to  say,  "  to  deliver  dogmatic 
judgments  on  us  ?  What  know  you  of  our  birth,  cul- 
ture, passions,  temptations,  struggles,  motives,  two  hun- 
dred years  ago  ?  What  right  have  you,  to  blame  ? 
What  qualifications  have  you,  to  praise  ?  Let  us  abide 
in  our  earthly  oblivion,  —  in  our  immortal  life.  It  is 
sufficient  that  our  works  demonstrated  on  earth  the 
inextingui^hable  vitality  of  the  Soul  that  glowed  within 
us  ;  and,  for  the  rest,  we  have  long  passed  to  the  only 
infallible  —  the  Almighty — critic  and  judge  of  works 
and  of  men  ! " 


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3   1205  00370  7187 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA       001  332  726        7 


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